


Old Wounds

by Maddalia



Series: The Scars Trilogy [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddalia/pseuds/Maddalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vic Matlock is a giant in the illegal drugs and weapons trade, and an old and bitter enemy of British law enforcement. Doyle feels like he’s back on the drugs squad as he and a friend of his from B-squad are sent to investigate. Meanwhile, Bodie witnesses a meeting between Cowley and a prominent member of Special Branch, about an escaped prisoner who might prove a vital link to Matlock. But when they’re pulled off their jobs to babysit a retired surgeon who is the father of one of Bodie’s oldest friends, it becomes clear that the case is even more complicated than they imagined. And their personal lives aren’t much simpler, either...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue.** ****

**Monday, May 24.**  

==================

**_Dartmoor Prison. 23:30 BST._ **

================== 

One flash of light at the end of the disused corridor, and he ran, virtually noiseless in his plimsolls. Someone pressed a torch into his left hand, and then his faceless helper seemed to melt away, as quickly and as silently as he had come.

There was no beautiful certainty in escape, only the devastating knowledge of what awaited him if he failed. His connections on the outside would be severed, his protection on the inside gone. Three men, hitherto kept at bay, wanted something unspeakable from him: the same thing they wanted from every bloke with a half-decent figure who was unlucky enough to end up in this place. And that wouldn't be all, if he failed. A mutual favour would be called in; he'd be taken somewhere like this corridor, somewhere dark, dank, unused, forgotten. He would be invaded, cut, beaten. There would be humiliation and pain, degradation and desperate, smothering misery, before it was all over.

The door to the old laundry room was unlocked, just like Gerry had said it would be. One of the driers had been moved a little to one side. Behind that — the hole, the way into the ventilation system. He went over the map in his head as he inched his way into the narrow space between two walls. He swallowed, shut his eyes against a brief attack of claustrophobia, then hauled himself up, through a second hole, and into the long, low, dirty tunnel that was his road to freedom. 

Had sweeps crawled along here once, going from one chimney to another? That job would have been more hellish than prison. There were turnings, openings into blackness, and he tried not to look at them as he crawled onwards. He remembered the moment when he had to switch off the torch. There was a grating, through which he couldn’t afford for any light to be spotted. He reached it. It swung open at his touch. Thankfully, he breathed in: fresh air, at last. 

He felt around to the right. He knew there’d be a ladder, and he climbed down, not bothered by the height, or the fact that he could only just make out his hands in front of his eyes: two black shapes that quivered. There was no danger here but that of his own stupidity. They wouldn’t kill him like this, not when he still had his job to do. If his hands _were_ shaking a little, surely it was the night air. It was late spring, but it had been so stifling, that terrible crawl. 

His feet touched concrete, and he was running again, keeping close to the wall. Bare knuckles brushed rough mortar and he sucked in his breath. Focus. There would be an unlocked gate, into the alley where the supply lorries came in. He let himself through it, and a single, soft squeak of metal hinges was deafening in his ears. His heart was quick and audible inside his own head. His hands were shaking more violently now, so much so that he was glad someone else was there to open the car door for him.

The passenger seat of the Mercedes was a sanctuary. He could smell the leather of the seats, the scent of posh aftershave, the intrusion of his own sweat.

‘Jack.’

He took a deep breath, and answered the familiar, lightly accented voice. Gerard Brandtner had been in England for twenty years, but there was still a slight hint of his origin when he spoke.

‘Gerry.’

‘Let’s go.’

The car started, and sped away in a squealing of tyres. They were well away, turning off the main road to and from the prison, when the faint sound of sirens drifted on the wind towards them. Jack saw the glint of Gerry’s teeth.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked. ‘Straight to London?’

‘Safehouse first,’ Gerry answered. ‘About fifty miles — you need a change of clothes, and I expect some warm female company wouldn't go amiss. Wednesday, you shall work. You must make the most of your rest time.’

Jack leaned back in his seat and grinned. Gerry patted his thigh.

‘You did well,’ he said. His hand moved to the gearstick, the engine roared, and Jack let himself relax.


	2. Chapter 2

**  
Day 1.**

**Tuesday, May 25.**

 ==================

**_London. Flat of W.A.P. Bodie. 00:15 BST._ **

==================

Ray Doyle was undone. 

One last, perfect movement, almost as little as a twitch. Enough, from the man who knew him best.

‘Oh…’

No time for words. Even Bodie’s name was too much. Doyle arched his back, groaned, let go.

‘Ah, Ray…Ray!’

Bodie inhaled as he climaxed: a choked gasp, and it was some seconds before he breathed out. A laugh escaped Doyle, breaking the silence; Bodie’s breath exploded from him, and he rolled off Doyle’s supine body, settling close at his side. Doyle smiled at him, glanced at his bandaged shoulder. Bodie’s latest injury was weeks old now, but he had another few days in Records before he’d be in the clear.

‘Alright?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Bodie, with a grin. He tucked his uninjured arm behind his head. ‘Highlight of the day, definitely.’

‘Don’t speak too soon,’ said Doyle. ‘It’ll be my turn in a minute.’ His yawn betrayed him.

‘If you can stay awake that long.' 

‘Fuck off.’

Bodie snorted, then pretended to huff. ‘Fine, I will. Just make meself a cup of tea, settle down with a good dirty book. Bliss.’

‘I’ll give you bliss.’

‘If you can stay awake that long.’

Grinning, Doyle tackled Bodie sideways, pushed him onto his front, and set about showing him just how awake he was.

 

==================

**_London. Colliers’ Garage. 09:45 BST._ **

==================

The gold Capri’s tyres squeaked, and the momentum of the car’s sudden stop brought Callum Maddox’s head forward, then back against the headrest with a soft, dull _thump_. He felt a few strands of hair disentangle themselves from the elastic band at the nape of his neck. Automatically, he reached up, took out his ponytail, smoothed his hair back, and deftly rewound the elastic.

A glancing smirk was all the acknowledgement Doyle gave him. Doyle couldn’t afford to take the piss out of anyone for being vain. He might have let his perm grow out this past year, but the way his hair looked every morning — there’d be half an hour in that, surely? Unless he was that fucking lucky.

 _Or_ Bodie’s _that fucking lucky,_ thought Maddox, and smirked back, though he said nothing out loud. Teasing Doyle about his long-time partner was normally one of his favourite pastimes, but it wasn’t quite the right mood this morning. He knew why Doyle was tense. He was tense for the same reason: the upcoming interview — or was _confrontation_ a better word? — with the men who worked in the garage to their left. The two CI5 agents were both ex-cops, and they’d both had reason to deal with these particular suspects before.

‘D’you think we can make anything stick this time?’

‘Let’s hope so, for your sake,’ replied Doyle, drily. ‘Prior experience of the Collier family is the only reason Cowley put you with me on this one. With the right pressure, he doesn’t think they’ll go down for Vic Matlock a third time, and I agree with him.’

Maddox allowed himself to put voice to a thought that had been making him uneasy since he'd got the assignment: ‘Ray, if we don’t get ‘em, my promotion’s fucked, isn’t it?’

‘Depends on your competition, mate. I’ve known several blokes who made it from B-squad to A-squad before they were six months in CI5. And they weren’t necessarily the best agents, they were just the best to be had at that time. We’d lost too many men.’

‘It was deaths on _B-_ squad that stopped me getting it last time,’ Maddox complained. ‘Cowley needed all of us.’

Doyle gave him a sharp look. ‘A lot more than your promotion was fucked up on that case, Cal.’

‘Yeah, I know. Poor Cook. Poor June!’

‘And the rest. She’s just the one we knew.’

‘Do we have to talk about this now?’

‘You fucking brought it up.’

‘Alright, alright.’ Maddox sighed. ‘How’re we going to play this?’

‘Firm but fair,’ said Doyle. ‘No violence. The Colliers are old hands at all this. Even Joe will have been taught what’s what. You stick one shiny toecap out of line, you’ll have their lawyer breathing down your neck and you’ll be up before a tribunal. And then your promotion really _will_ be fucked.’

‘No violence — d’you think that’s why Cowley left Bodie out of it?’

‘Cheeky bastard. Bodie’s on light duties. You should thank your lucky stars he got shot, or you’d’ve been stuck with Rex, babysitting the Japanese ambassador.’ With a further smirk, Doyle added: ‘Not that you’d complain _too_ much about that, would you?’

Maddox gave Doyle a sarcastic smile in return. The thing with Rex was an open secret in CI5. They got away with it because they were both married, their wives were old friends, and any time they saw each other outside work could be passed off as two mates meeting up. If Cowley knew — and they’d never dare ask him — he obviously didn’t see it as any kind of risk. Now, if Doyle and Bodie were an item, it’d be different. Even in the spirit of fun in which Maddox imagined them together, he could only see total commitment. Strange, the vibes one got from people…

‘I smell burning, you must be thinking too much.’ Doyle cut into his thoughts.

‘Oh, just contemplating the day.’

Doyle sighed. ‘You’re right. Come on.’ He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Maddox did the same on the passenger side, noting with some irritation that the aforesaid shiny toecaps were now considerably _less_ shiny, having emerged from the safety of the Capri onto the sort of dust-and-gravel surface where footwear with any hint of style was bound to meet its certain doom.

Doyle noticed the mournful looks Maddox was shooting towards his feet. ‘Bloody cowboy boots, you are a pillock, Cal. I can’t believe Eileen lets you leave the house looking like that.’

‘Eileen minds her own business. I don’t tell _her_ what to wear.’

‘Ah, modern liberated husband, are we?’

‘Fuck off.’ Maddox kicked the ground, trying to ignore Doyle’s grin. He was a good-looking bastard when he smiled, that was the trouble. It was like Rex said: ‘you can’t help but fancy Doyle.’ Even when he was winding you up. Maddox kicked the ground a second time, because Rex wasn’t allowed to fancy Doyle. It didn’t matter that Doyle was straight. Rex wasn’t allowed to look at other men. 

Maddox wondered at the vehemence of that thought. Then he wondered what Rex was doing just now. He didn’t need to wonder about Eileen; he _knew_ what she’d be doing. Tuesday was her day off. Right about now she’d be getting back from her weekly grocery shop, making herself a coffee to go with the cream bun she’d have brought home as a Tuesday treat, and settling down with this week’s novel, so she’d be ready to host her book club meeting in the evening. For Maddox, that meant pub dinner, darts and quiz, followed by nightcap at Rex’s (his wife was a member of Eileen’s book club). That was Tuesdays, whenever they weren’t on an obbo. But they were both due to knock off at five tonight, so it was business as usual.

Hours to go yet, though. Maddox puffed out his cheeks as he and Doyle walked into the yard behind the garages, where Joe and George Collier would be working. The first door was locked, but the second one was open, and music emanated from it. Tinny, as if from a small portable radio. Something metallic banged vaguely in time to the beat. Doyle looked more relaxed than Maddox felt, but the older man had a knack for that. They had both dealt with the Collier brothers since joining CI5 — not that they had pinned anything on them — but it was the first meeting that stuck in Maddox's mind. Joe, the younger of the pair, had been a twelve year old kid then, skiving off school and playing football in the road with his mates, while three cops questioned his father and elder brothers over their part in the local drugs trade. Maddox, the youngest man in his division, remembered trading insults with the kid on his way in and out of the house. He'd felt sorry for him. If Joe was following the rest of his family into crime now, it was a shame, even if catching them at it would make Maddox's career.

‘Anything planned for tonight?’ he asked Doyle, to try and end what felt like an awkward silence. 

‘Yeah, as it happens. I’m picking up Bodie at HQ; we’re going to the theatre.’

‘Oooh.’

‘It’s not a euphemism,’ Doyle said with a laugh. ‘I got a note through my door, saying I’d been selected at random as the winner of two tickets. They probably just can’t sell ‘em. Anyway, Bodie reckons we’ll pick up a couple of birds.’

‘Knowing Bodie, he’s booked a table for four at a posh restaurant afterwards.’

‘He has, you know.’ They exchanged a grin. ‘Eternal optimist, our Bodie.’

‘Oh, good luck, mate.' 

‘Thanks.’ Doyle looked as if he couldn’t care less. ‘What about you? Fuck night, is it?’

‘Quiz night,’ Maddox corrected him swiftly. With a quick glance sideways, he added: ‘So yeah.’

At least Doyle was open about these things, he reflected. Most of CI5 might know about him and Rex, but they also preferred to pretend they didn’t. Doyle, on the other hand, talked and bantered with him as if they were just two blokes discussing girls. Rex appreciated Doyle's openness, too, and he'd pushed their luck a bit more than Maddox would have liked, showing him more than merely platonic affection in front of the older agent — not that Doyle would ever tell Cowley, but still...

Doyle knocked with exaggerated politeness on the battered old filing cabinet that stood beside the open garage door. A young man with tousled blond hair, dressed in a grimy pair of dungarees, emerged from under a Volvo. He rolled his eyes when he saw who his visitors were.

‘Oh, no, not the Met’s finest.’

‘Alright, Joe?’ Doyle gave him a grim smile. ‘Is big brother about?’

Joe put two fingers in his mouth and gave a whistle that bounced off the metal walls. Doyle and Maddox both winced.

‘Georgie!’ he yelled. ‘Starsky and Hutch to see you!’

‘Oh, very witty,’ said Doyle. Joe made a sarcastic face. Looking at Maddox, whose hair was fair and straight, he said: 'All you need now's the silly moustache.' Maddox gave him the finger. Doyle gave Maddox a glare that told him in no uncertain terms to grow the fuck up. Maddox felt a twinge of shame.

‘Fucking hell, not you two.’ George Collier strolled past Maddox and Doyle, and came to stand slightly in front of his younger brother. He was thicker-set than Joe, slightly shorter, and dark-haired: far more the typical Collier look. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen you both together, mind you. What happened — bored with blowing up terrorists? What are you doing back with us ordinary villains, eh? Get kicked out of that flashy mob?’

‘Nope. Still CI5.’ Doyle flashed his ID, and Maddox did the same, a second behind him.

‘Very nice. What does CI5 want with us, then? Did Latham beg the Powers that Be for some bigger fish to come and rough us up? His lads found fuck-all on the last raid, for one very good reason. We’re clean. Like I told _him_ , Joe ‘n’ me, we’ve gone straight.’ He folded his arms. ‘And CI5 or no CI5, you’re not touching our stuff without a warrant, so if you haven’t got one, you can piss off.’

‘I’m not looking to do any searches,’ Doyle said, holding up his hands. ‘And I think we all have the same opinion of Detective Inspector Latham. Right, Cal?’

‘And then some,’ said Maddox. Latham had been his governor when he was a detective sergeant. Jealous of any young copper who was going places, he’d tried to block Maddox’s transfer to CI5, out of spite. He’d started rumours — and they’d had no foundation, not then. Not until Rex...

‘Ah, I remember.’ George grinned at Maddox. ‘You were the one he said was putting it about down every alley in Soho. Or should that be every gent in Soho putting it up _your_ alley?’

‘I hate to spoil your wet dreams, Georgie, but I’m a happily married man.’ Maddox pointed at his ring, remembered his relief at being able to hide behind it, even though Cowley had seen through Latham’s lies without its help. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind, my colleague and I would like to get our lunch before dinner time, so how about you stop pissing about, and answer the questions we came to ask you?’

‘Like I said. We can’t help you.' 

‘We haven’t asked you anything yet,’ Doyle snapped. ‘Just for starters, you can tell us why Vic Matlock’s car was seen driving away from here at seven-thirty yesterday evening.’

‘One of his injectors was busted,’ George returned, coolly. 'We fixed it.' 

‘How sad for him.’ 

‘Come on, George,’ Maddox broke in. ‘Why else would Matlock come to you? He’s got you fetching and carrying for him again, hasn’t he?’ 

‘I tell you, he hasn’t!’ George snarled. He took a step forward, but stopped when Joe put a hand on his shoulder. He breathed deeply, in and out, then shook off his brother’s hand. ‘And you’ve got no fucking proof otherwise, Maddox, so don’t pretend you have. Cheap coppers’ scare tactics don’t wash with us.’ 

‘Matlock wasn’t even here last night,’ put in Joe. ‘His driver turned up with the car, he walked off for a couple of hours…’

‘What time was that?’ Doyle asked, pencil poised over his notebook. 

‘About four-thirty. We were about to knock off, but he said if Matlock didn’t get his car back by nine there’d be hell to pay. We know Matlock too well to doubt it, so we stayed on to finish the job. He came back about seven, brought a six-pack to say thanks, we had a beer and a fag, he drove off about seven-thirty.’ 

‘This driver — what was his name?’

‘Don't remember.’

‘Ah, come on, Joe!'

‘What? I hardly spoke to him. It was George who dealt with him, mostly.’

‘That right?’ Doyle looked expectantly at George.

‘Yeah. He must be new; at least, I didn’t recognise him from the old days. Name's Tony Rutherford.’

‘Okay.’ Doyle nodded, and scribbled down his notes. Maddox stole a glance in the older agent’s direction, and felt an uneasy prickle go down his spine. Doyle thought the Colliers were telling the truth. _Fuck._ Worse: Maddox found himself agreeing. _Double fuck._ Alright, maybe the false lead — if it _was_ false — hadn’t originated from them; an informant had contacted Cowley directly. But the result would reflect on them. That was just the way things were.

‘So what did you three talk about?’ he asked. He tried to imitate Doyle’s casual stance: the bastard seemed to lean in mid-air. His right foot did a clumsy little shuffle as he nearly lost his balance. He swore several more times inside his head.

‘I dunno, we just passed the time of day.’ George shrugged. ‘Or evening, as it were.’

‘Wasn’t he whinging about some pub or other?’ Joe asked.

‘Oh, yeah. He’s losing his local. To some German property developer who bought out the owners.’ Staring hard into Maddox’s eyes, George finished: ‘Nothing to do with Vic Matlock.’

‘We made a lot of German jokes,’ Joe put in, his expression defiant and sarcastic. ‘Know any good ones?’

 _Humour him,_ Maddox thought. _Don’t let him win. Coppers on TV always banter with the villains… Christ, I take my cues from TV now? All these bloody surveillance jobs, I’m so out of practice at this._ ‘Erm — how tall was Hitler and where did he live?’ He laid his index finger over his top lip — ‘He was this tall‘ — raised his other arm in a Nazi salute ‘— and he lived over there.’

Doyle chuckled. George snorted, and Joe grinned. ‘We did that one.’

‘Alright,’ Doyle said, through a sigh. ‘Last question, then we’ll put things on hold. I’m not taking your word for all this just yet.’

‘Just as you please,’ George said, with a sneer.

‘Heard from your cousin lately?’

'Ray...'

Maddox shot Doyle a frown. Cowley had told them not to bring up the cousin. Far from being grateful for the warning, though, Doyle's brief glance sideways was positively venomous. He gave George an expectant look. 'Well?'

‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ said George. ‘We’re a big family.’

Doyle shifted his weight, stuck out one hip, folded his arms. _Don’t waste my time,_ that pose said. Either that or _fuck me now,_ but Maddox thought the former more likely. _Though God, I wouldn’t mind it being the other…_

‘Heard from your cousin _Jack_ lately?’

George’s nostrils flared at the sound of the name. His reaction looked genuine enough. Maybe they really _had_ gone straight.

‘He’s inside,’ Joe said shortly. ‘We don’t visit.’

Doyle gave a brisk nod. He touched Maddox lightly on the arm, and they both turned to go.

‘See that you keep it that way,’ he threw back over his shoulder. ‘And save up some jokes — we’ll be seeing you again soon, I’m sure.’

‘Can’t wait,’ George called after them. Maddox thought he heard him mutter: ‘Fucking nobs.’ Doyle was looking at the ground as they walked back to the car, but he was grinning; obviously he’d heard it, too.

Maddox opened the passenger door of the Capri, and slid inside with a grace that made up for his almost-tumble in the garage. He turned to Doyle and said: ‘Asking about Jack wasn’t in our brief.’

‘That’s the difference between A-squad and B-squad, Cal. Initiative.’ 

Cal gritted his teeth at the insult. 'Well. You could have told me.'

 _'You_ could have kept your mouth shut.' Doyle was scowling now. 'How d’you think that looked to old hands like the Colliers? We need to show solidarity.’

Maddox glared back. 'Last time I checked, solidarity meant sticking to planned lines of questioning. Being — I dunno — a partnership? Or does it just mean "you lead I follow"? Eh?' 

‘Look.’ Doyle twisted sideways to face him, took off his sunglasses. ‘Outside CI5 we’re mates; you and Eileen mean a lot to me. But here, you’re still B-squad. I outrank you. I may have put in a good word for you with Cowley, but that’s something I _will_ take back if you don’t learn to do things the right way.’

‘The right way, read _your_ way.’ Maddox knew he was being sullen, saw Doyle’s hands tighten on the wheel, knew that by antagonising the other man he was jeopardising his chances at promotion, but he couldn’t help it. Doyle was six years older than him, but he still remembered the days when they were both detective constables. Doyle had ended his time in the police when Maddox had barely started his, but there had been a few months in between when they’d been equals. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite forgive Doyle for being put straight into A-squad, when he, Maddox, had to work his way up. 

Apart from the more regular hours, there was only one consolation in B-squad: a dark-haired, laid-back consolation, with an arse and thighs to die for, a smile that made your insides do somersaults, and okay, maybe he wasn't the biggest in the world, but he used every inch he had with mind-blowing precision. And — Maddox glanced at his watch — still five and a half bloody hours until he got to see him again.

Maybe Doyle could read his thoughts, but as the seconds of silence ticked by, Maddox saw him relax. He pulled his car door shut and twirled his keys around one finger.

‘Ah, we rattled ‘em, that’s the main thing,’ he said, settling himself more comfortably in his seat. ‘If they’ve anything else to tell, it’ll come out next time. But I want to talk to this Rutherford bloke first.’

 _Take the gift,_ Maddox thought, and forced himself to swallow his anger. ‘D’you think they _are_ involved with Matlock?’

‘Dunno yet,’ said Doyle. ‘But one thing’s for sure — they know Jack’s out. And the press hasn’t breathed a word.’

 

==================

**_Lake Geneva, off Vevey. 09:45 CEST._ **

==================

The lake glittered in the morning sunshine, the shallows looked an almost tropical turquoise, and the light bounced off the pristine hulls of several boats that were moored or anchored near the town. Their reflections shimmered in the still water. They ranged from modest one-sail affairs to full-on pleasure cruisers. One of them, the _Achilles_ , was the nautical equivalent of a penthouse flat. Two men were on deck, taking advantage of a warm, dry morning to do their daily workout in the open air. They were both dressed in swimming trunks and their bodies were wet from swimming, but they dried off quickly as they exercised.

They had owned the mooring for four years and stayed there for forty-eight weeks a year, spending every January touring the Greek islands. They tended to keep themselves to themselves, but they were acquainted with their fellow boat-owners and most of the locals knew them by sight. The sum of what most people knew was that they were well-off, English, in their mid to late thirties, and they probably weren't just a pair of bachelors who happened to live together. But they were polite and friendly, and if some people might have seen the odd kiss or embrace exchanged on the deck of their boat, in public their relationship seemed quite respectably platonic. 

They weren't arrogant or obnoxious like many English expatriates; they were both fluent in French, and the taller, dark-haired man could speak it like a native, along with Italian and German. They were mostly quiet, although there had been some gossip during their first year on the boat about some violent screaming matches and, once or twice, the sight of some cuts and bruises, as if they'd been fighting. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to have settled down now.

Arms crossed across his chest, Jon did his fortieth sit-up and asked: 'Wasn't there any post?'

He lay back down, as Hal sat up and said: 'Fuck.'

Jon gave a breathy laugh. 'You forgot?'

Hal puffed out his cheeks and made a horse-like sound.

'Forty-one,' Jon panted. 'Idiot.'

'I was —' Hal paused as his muscles contracted '— thinking about earlier.' 

Jon grinned. 'Not bad, eh? Forty-two.'

'You should get flu more often.'

'Forty-three. You mean it forces us to abstain?'

Hal grunted as he came up. 'Yeah. Glad you’re better now, though. _And_ you were in one of your moods. Not that I...'

'Forty-four...'

'...wouldn't love you without them...'

'Aww. Forty-five.'

'But one thing I've learned —' he said 'forty-six' along with Jon, and couldn’t resist a glance as his stomach muscles rippled '— is that we need to appreciate our adversities. I can't make your bad memories stop any more than I can get rid of mine. But I can enjoy the results. 

'True.'

'I do like it when you...'

'Forty-eight...'

'Is it? I thought it was forty-seven.'

'We didn't count the last one out loud. Forty-nine. What were you saying?'

'Don't remember.'

'Fifty!' They both collapsed. Hal turned to his side. After a few seconds of staring at the sky, Jon turned to face him. Hal touched his cheek, remembering what he’d been going to say.

'I don’t want you to feel bad. But I know I can’t stop it. And I can’t help liking it when you regress like you do. The sex is different. Not that it's not always good, but when you're thinking about back then, it's — different.'

'I was thinking about when I thought you were dead.' Jon looked at their feet. They were both brushing the tips of their toes against each other, half-consciously seeking contact. 'When I saw you again after all that time, it was like a miracle. In between, it was like — hell.'

'For me too,' said Hal. They were rehashing a conversation they'd had many times.

'Not the same,' Jon insisted. 'But I hope you never know how that feels.'

Hal looked at him. He was doing that thing with his hands, that restless movement of his fingers. Hal bit his lip. He didn’t want Jon back in that mood, brooding in old memories. It happened more and more rarely these days, and Hal usually got him to channel it into lovemaking, and dispel it. They’d done that, and now he wanted Jon happy again. It was up to him to lighten the mood.

'Since you appreciate me so much today, I know you'll be happy to go to the post office.'

'Ha. Sorry. I've used up all my appreciation for today.' Jon put his hands behind his head and made a great show of relaxing. Relieved, Hal rested his head on Jon's chest and listened to the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. For a moment, he enjoyed the quiet, but he’d never been all that good at silence. Besides, that walk back into town was nagging at him. 

‘Oh, go on, Jon. I’ll cook!’

‘I know you will. It’s your turn.’

‘No, I mean breakfast as well.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Jon touched the top of Hal’s head to make him look up. ‘You mean properly? Bacon, eggs, sausages…’

Hal crossed his arms on Jon’s chest and smiled. ‘Fried bread, mushrooms — American pancakes?’

‘Mmm,’ Jon said dreamily. ‘Sounds lovely. You’ll pick up the ingredients on the way back from the post office, won’t you?’

Hal gave a cross between a laugh and a sob. It had been worth a try.

‘Help me up, then.’

Jon stood up and put a hand down to Hal. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Leave it all for now. We’ll have our normal breakfast, and the post can wait a day. If you do that shopping tomorrow, I’ll cook. Provided you flip the pancakes. I’m not trying that again.’

‘You did look funny with batter all over your face.’

‘The skin peeling off the bridge of my nose wasn’t so funny, though.’

‘No.’ Hal winced. He ran one finger down his partner’s slim, straight nose, now perfectly healed. He saw Jon’s look of contentment at that slightest of touches, and a wave of tenderness rippled through his chest. He pressed his lips into the space between Jon’s eyes, the kiss that meant ‘mine’. Jon sighed softly.

Years ago, Jon had remarked that Hal’s kisses were like a language: each one meant something different, depending on its placing and the pressure. Upon prompting — Hal couldn’t have let a comment like that go without qualification — Jon had decoded each and every one of them, and Hal had to admit, upon reflection, that he had got virtually every one of them right. There were kisses that demanded certain roles and positions in sex, or whether it would be fast or slow. There were kisses that gave comfort, or asked for it. There was the kiss that said ‘mine’, and the rougher one in the same place that said ‘I won’t let anything happen to you’. There was the one that said ‘Do what you like with me’, which, he had to admit, didn’t happen very often; Hal was usually the more assertive one in bed. Jon's favourite kiss was the slow, deep locking of lips that meant, simply, ‘passion’, and could lead to just about anything. He was happy enough for Hal to decide what.

Then there was the one that just meant ‘love’: a barely-there flutter of lips on the side of his face. Hal brushed Jon’s second-favourite kiss against his left cheekbone, and watched the warmth flood his eyes. Hal shivered. He found that expression extraordinarily beautiful.

Hal’s childhood had been emotionally stilted. His mother had died when he was a baby, and his father was a cold man who had shown him no hint of love or affection. Like many men of his generation, Edward Haley had raised his son to bank down his feelings and stiffen his upper lip. It was the level to which he took this that was unusual, and Hal’s fledgling awareness of a forbidden sexuality had made everything feel ten times worse. He had grown up both repressed and _op_ pressed, not even realising how alone and unloved he felt. He had been brought up in virtual isolation, not going to school until he was almost thirteen years old. Only his mother's father had seemed to care about him — Hal had been his only living relative, and sole heir — but Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Holland Dillon, or 'the Colonel' as his grandson had nicknamed him, hadn't been around enough to ease Hal's loneliness. He had died in the summer before Hal's fourteenth birthday.

Collectively, these things had resulted in a numbness, a distance from his own self and his surroundings, a lack of awareness of his own feelings and a lack of empathy with others. Jon, to whom repression was utterly alien, had taken considerable pains to bring Hal out of himself. Within a few months of their first meeting, Hal had fallen for Jon with a passion that shocked him. After a struggle, he had realised that the very thing his Catholic faith had taught him was wrong, might just be the sense of normality, the rightness, that he had lacked. He had felt whole, autonomous, _human_ , for the first time in his short life. 

When, at the age of sixteen, they had been forced to separate, Hal had lived for the moment when they might meet again. It had happened eight years later, in the summer of 1970. It was nearly as long before they were finally able to settle down. Their life together before that had amounted to a few snatched meetings per year: a day here, two days there, a week if they were extremely lucky. It hadn’t surprised Hal that their first year on the boat had not gone smoothly. Not that he had questioned for a moment whether they really belonged together after all, but he had realised that it took more than true love to make a relationship. It took time — which they hadn’t been used to having — and cooperation, which they’d had to learn. 

In the old days, when they had disagreed about something, they had bitten their tongues, and swallowed their anger, refusing to let it escalate into arguments but, equally, refusing to back down. They had seen each other so seldom, and been desperate not to part badly from each other. So, naturally enough, once they had the luxury of being able to fight, they had fought. 

And, Christ, had they fought. Tempers had flared at the slightest disagreement. For much of that first year, it had seemed to be every other day. They had yelled and screamed, slammed doors, refused to speak to each other for hours. Three times they had almost came to blows; twice, they actually did. The first time, it had culminated in furious sex that had cancelled out the anger and probably left more bruises than the fight. The second time, it had been more serious. They had stumbled into hospital together, both with broken ribs and myriad cuts and bruises. The incident had brought them to their senses. The next evening they had got a taxi back to the boat, and sat for a long time on deck, side-by-side, in silence. It had begun to rain, but neither of them had made a move to go inside.

Finally, Jon had said: _‘Hal, if I’m making you this miserable...’_

Hal had called him a fucking moron and hugged him around the neck till he gasped for breath. With their injuries it was impossible to make love properly, but they had touched each other the way they had as schoolboys, and kissed until their lips were swollen. Then, they had sat on deck until the sun came up, and just talked. They had not had a proper conversation in months.

Four years, they had lived together now, and they had known each other for twenty-six. The passion between them might have become something calmer and more settled, but it had not even slightly lessened. Moreover, unlike his twelve-year-old self, Hal at thirty-eight was fully aware of the feelings that made the corners of his mouth curve upwards. He dropped his forehead to Jon’s shoulder and enjoyed the sun on his back.

 

 ==================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 16:32 BST._ **

==================

Doyle was hungry, hot, and tired by the time they got back to HQ. The feeling of fullness from the fast food they’d grabbed at lunchtime had turned out to be illusory. Maybe he should ask to work with Rex next time: not only did he give less lip, but he was also vegetarian, and Doyle knew a couple of places that provided good, swift service. Doyle liked to have at least one meat-free day a week. He reckoned it helped his insides. Bodie laughed at him, and said: ‘Well, I’ll buy two steaks for that night anyway; I’ll just have yours.’ Either that, or: ‘Keep it up, mate, I’ve a vested interest in your insides.’

They knocked on Cowley’s door. The Controller’s voice called: ‘Come in.’ He smiled when the two younger men entered. ‘Ah, Doyle, Maddox. What have you to report?’

‘We paid a visit to the younger Colliers,’ said Doyle. ‘According to them, Matlock wasn’t in the car. It was only his driver. There was a problem with one of the fuel injectors and he brought the car in for repairs. We checked their story with Matlock’s driver, and he told us the same thing. I looked under the bonnet and it was clear that one of the injectors had just been replaced.' 

‘So? It could have been a cover. An excuse for Matlock to get a message to the Colliers.’

‘George Collier swore they’d gone straight,’ said Doyle.

‘And?’

‘I’m inclined to believe him.’

‘Och, Doyle, you’re getting soft in your old age.’

‘Sir, George was twenty when his dad and older brother got done. He was never more than transport, and he was coerced at best; we knew that at the time. Even his sister was more involved than he was — she was hiding the stuff in her pantry, for Christ’s sake!’

‘None of your blasphemy,’ Cowley cut in, wagging his finger, but Doyle pressed on.

‘And Joe — he was twelve; he didn’t even know what was going on! Latham tried to prove he was dealing amongst his mates, but he got nowhere. Except to make Joe hate the police.’

‘All that’s fair enough, Doyle, but that doesn’t mean they’re not involved now. We’ve got members of that family both in and out of prison, and whether they were dealing with Matlock last time or not, they’ve all got the contacts. Maddox, what did you think?’

‘Me?’ Maddox looked startled. Doyle had seen him glance at the clock a few times. What was he waiting for? Rex, probably; they were meeting up later.

‘Yes, you,’ Cowley said impatiently.

‘Well, sir, I agree with Doyle, George and Joe probably _aren’t_ involved with Matlock: not with the drugs, anyway. But I don’t think Tony Rutherford told us everything he knows.' 

‘Rutherford being Matlock’s new driver?’ Cowley's eyes flickered; Doyle caught the look, but if the old man knew, or knew _of_ , Rutherford, he'd tell them when _he_ was ready to do so, and not before. 

‘Yes, sir. I think he wasn’t just there to get his boss' car repaired. I think he was there to tell them something. Not to do with drugs; not even necessarily to do with Matlock — in fact George _emphasised_ that their conversation didn’t involve him.’

‘Well? Out with it, lad!’

Maddox glanced nervously at Doyle. _Can I?_ the look said. Doyle’s pride spiked; he jumped in ahead of his younger colleague. ‘We think Rutherford was there to tell them about Jack Collier’s escape.’

Cowley narrowed his eyes. ‘Doyle, that’s not our case. Special Branch put him away, it’s their job to get him back. I’ve been specifically asked _not_ to interfere. And if I recall, I specifically asked _you_ not to...’

‘But sir — if Rutherford’s involved with Jack, surely that means Matlock might be setting his sights on something bigger than usual. And Matlock _is_ our business.’

‘He could still be involved with the Collier family,’ Maddox put in — showing enough solidarity _now_ , Doyle noted. ‘Just not George or Joe. At least, not yet.’ Doyle nodded agreement.

‘Alright,’ Cowley relented. ‘If it's the Tony Rutherford I've heard of, he has a record.'

'Ohhh,' said Maddox. He reddened. 'Not the one who drove for the Salcombe boys?'

'That's right,' said Cowley. He smiled slightly. 'Your case back in '78, wasn't it? Maybe we should add a memory test to the annual assessments, Maddox.'

'Sorry, sir.' 

Cowley waved off the tangent. 'Anyway, he was in for nothing more than getaway driving, but while he was in the Scrubs, so were two of the Colliers — George and Joe's father, Martin, and their elder brother Dennis. This may have been a private matter.'

'Unlikely, since both brothers claimed they'd never met Rutherford before last night,' said Doyle. 'If it was private they'd have said he was an old mate of their dad's, wouldn't they?'

'Unless they had a reason not to admit to the connection,' Cowley added thoughtfully. 'They may have wanted to disassociate themselves with any ex-cons. But if this _is_ to do with Jack, we need to follow it up without stepping on Special Branch’s toes. I’ll put Bane and Wesley onto Rutherford; we’ll establish how he spends his evenings. You two will relieve them at eight tomorrow morning, find out how he spends his days.’

‘Sir.’

‘What about Matlock himself? Is Murphy still watching him?’

‘Anson’s relieving him at six. Unless either of you would like to volunteer?’ Cowley smiled when both his agents looked horrified. ‘Don’t worry, lads, I won’t spoil your evening, _this_ time. Big plans, I suppose?’

‘Oh — just the usual, sir,’ Maddox said. ‘Tucker and I do the quiz at our local when we’re free.’

‘Well, be glad I put you both on the day shift,’ said Cowley. ‘What about you, Doyle? I do take an interest in my agents’ social lives sometimes, you know.’

‘I’m taking Bodie out to stretch his legs. Poor bloke’s going mad in Records,’ said Doyle.

‘Yes, Bodie’s never sat still easily,’ said Cowley. ‘But if he will insist on walking into bullets… anyway, I shall see you both tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll expect a full report on Rutherford’s movements.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Maddox.

‘Good night, sir,’ said Doyle.

When Doyle and Maddox entered the men’s locker room, they nodded to Lucas and McCabe, who were just leaving. 

‘Alright lads? Off for the night?’

‘Hi, Ray,’ said Lucas. ‘Yeah.’ Gesturing towards his partner, he added: ‘We’ve got his brother’s stag do.’

‘On a Tuesday?’

‘Well, the wedding’s tomorrow, and Bill had to work over the weekend. Can’t have a stag night without the groom, can you?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Doyle. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Lucas snorted. McCabe said: ‘The girls’ll have nothing to guilt us about. Joni’s having _her_ do tonight, as well. Em and Linda are both going.’

Doyle grinned at the thought of his colleagues’ long-suffering girlfriends letting their hair down for once. ‘Have fun, then.’

‘See ya!’

They left. Doyle and Maddox went to their respective lockers. There was only one other man in the room, standing at the far end under the shower, dark hair curling wetly down his slender neck. Agent Tom Tucker, nicknamed ‘T-Rex’ because of his resemblance to Mark Bolan. It had long ago been shortened to just ‘Rex’, as much because it suited him as anything else. To Doyle, Tucker didn’t look like Bolan so much as he had that general style about him: the slightly fey rock star type. Not Doyle’s type at all, not since he was very young, anyway; but Maddox’s face lit up at the sight of him. 

Doyle hid his own smile. He had met both men socially before; he and Maddox had been friends for years, and since the younger man had joined CI5 a year ago, a gathering of his friends invariably included Rex. They’d always been in the company of their womenfolk, who had been best friends at college and unintentionally lost touch until they met again through their respective husbands. Doyle hadn’t had the chance to realise, until today, how smitten Maddox was. Funny — he and his wife had always seemed like such a close couple. Doyle couldn’t imagine loving two people at once, but then, Bodie was ten people’s worth of trouble. 

And, Doyle admitted to himself, pleasure.

Maddox stripped off all his clothes in the time it took Doyle to remove shoes and T-shirt. He bounded up to join Tucker under the shower.

‘Hiya,’ he said, still with that big, daft grin on his face.

‘Hi,’ said Tucker, smiling back. 

‘It’s just us and Ray here,’ said Maddox.

Tucker turned around, unselfconsciously. He was attractive, although too skinny for Doyle’s taste. Doyle preferred Bodie’s bulk. Allowing himself the obligatory glance between the other man’s legs, he added to himself: _In more ways than one._  

Tucker grinned. ‘Hello, Ray, how’re things?’

‘Good, you?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ He gave Doyle an amiable, close-lipped smile, before switching his gaze to Maddox. The smile grew. 

‘Cal!’ Tucker flung an arm around his neck, kissed his cheek. ‘I was so bloody bored today.’ After stiffening for a second, glancing towards Doyle, Maddox relaxed, and pulled Tucker into a full hug. Tucker laughed, not seemingly at anything in particular, just a happy sound. ‘You smell like sweat, and dust, and ooh, _beer._ You must’ve been in the real world. When are you coming back to Purgatory?’

‘Dunno. Cowley’s got me and Doyle back out there tomorrow.’

‘Aaww!’ Tucker followed his whine with a good-natured grin. ‘Hurry up then, get clean. If you’re leaving me again tomorrow I’m making the most of you tonight.’ He let go of Maddox and went on with washing himself. Maddox reached for his own soap, and Tucker resumed the conversation. ‘Do you still have Thursday off?' 

‘So far.’

‘Good. I told Sara we might go to the museum at Hendon. But, you know, we can do whatever we want.’

‘I don’t care what we do.’

‘Neither do I.’

They smiled at each other. Doyle, meanwhile, hung his towel on a nearby peg, turned on another of the shower heads, and went through his ablutions swiftly, wanting to leave Maddox and Tucker alone. At any rate, he wanted to get on and see Bodie. Ten hours was seeming like an awfully long time apart.

'Ray,' Maddox called, as Doyle was on his way out. 'You free on Saturday?'

'Think so,' said Doyle.

'Why don't you come round? It's Eileen's thirtieth. I’m throwing her a surprise do. Bring Bodie, she likes him. And if tonight works out, you know, with the girls...'

'Uh, yeah, will do, Cal, thanks.'

Maddox grinned. 'Seven for seven-thirty. But I'll see you tomorrow, any road.'

'Yeah, see you, mate.' 

The last glimpse Doyle got of Maddox as he turned and left the locker room, he was slipping his arms around Rex’s waist — seconds after he'd been talking about throwing a surprise party for his obviously beloved wife. Doyle shook his head. At least his own life was relatively simple.

 

==================

‘I remember when it was rare to see you _without_ a suit,’ Doyle said, as a shirted, tied and jacketed Bodie got into the car beside him. ‘Now you just look odd to me.’

Bodie arched his imperfect eyebrow. ‘Odd or gorgeous?’

Doyle pretended to consider. ‘Bit of both, if I’m honest.’ He started the engine, and pulled out of the car park. ‘Why have you got a suit? Unless you’ve got a secret compartment in your wardrobe, that one’s new.’

‘Ooh, you _noticed!’_

They grinned at each other. Doyle didn’t push; he knew Bodie would explain, so he kept his eyes on the road and waited.

‘Cowley wanted me to stand by his chair and look dangerous while he talked to Faraday from Special Branch. One needs to dress up for that.’

‘And?’

‘And, I was made party to certain pieces of classified information, as a trusted member of his staff.’

‘And as your partner…' 

Bodie shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ray.’

‘Can you answer me one simple yes or no question, then?’

‘Possibly.’

‘When Cowley talked to Faraday, did the name Collier come up?’

Bodie narrowed his eyes, but after a couple of seconds he gave in. ‘Yes.' 

‘Then I already know what was said, Bodie,’ Doyle said, as he swung down a side street. ‘Cowley told Cal and me that Jack Collier had escaped from prison late last night. He said we should watch for any sign of him at his cousins’ garage, but that we shouldn’t mention the escape when we interviewed them.’

‘And I’m _sure_ you and Cal obeyed that order.’

‘I asked if they’d heard from him, they said they hadn’t, and I left it at that. They were obviously lying, but if you ask me, they don’t want anything to do with Jack, and they haven’t seen him in person. Yet.’

‘And I’m sure Cowley was delighted to hear this, considering…’ Bodie tailed off.

‘Considering Faraday told Cowley to keep his nose out of it? Yeah. Their lads must’ve spotted Perkins talking to the old man.’

Bodie nodded. ‘Faraday knows we’re after Matlock. He doesn’t want our two departments getting our cases crossed. Too many cooks and all that.’

Doyle gave him a sharp glance. ‘So does Faraday think Matlock’s involved with Jack Collier? Would Matlock have reason to hire a killer?’ 

‘There’s no reason to believe that,’ said Bodie, and then he bared his teeth. ‘Damn it, Ray, I’m not supposed to talk about this. How d’you always manage to do this to me?’

‘It’s my irresistible charm,’ Doyle joked. When all he got in response was rolled eyes and folded arms, he scoffed: ‘Oh, come on, Bodie. That’s hardly a state secret you’re giving away. If there _were_ any link between the two, we’d’ve found out anyway.’

Bodie relaxed a little. Doyle decided to try a subtler tack.

‘I’m surprised a pro like him was at Dartmoor at all. It’s only Category B.’

‘Ah, well. He was moved there, twelve months ago,‘ said Bodie. ‘Officially, for good behaviour,  not that Dartmoor’s much of a reward from what I hear — but Faraday reckons there was a rotten apple somewhere in the chain of command. Someone with contacts, maybe… no. No, I’m not saying _any more._ ’ He drew a line in the air. His smile a few seconds later, in response to Doyle’s triumphant chuckle, looked reluctant. Doyle admitted to himself that he wasn’t being fair. They were partners, but that shouldn’t impinge on Bodie’s professionalism, and he, Doyle, shouldn’t have expected it to.

‘Seriously, mate, I’ve no interest in Jack Collier beyond the old natural curiosity — you know no one outside Special Branch got to hear the half of what he was involved in.’

‘And we probably never will.’

‘Did you learn anything about any of that? You don’t have to say what.’

‘There was a little more than just “piss off”, yes.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘And you can stop wondering about it, Ray,’ Bodie said firmly. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about work. I’ve spent the last two days sorting through just about everything CI5’s got on Vic Matlock. His career’s so long and illustrious, most of it’s not even on the computer system. Thank Christ, Cowley's getting a couple of the girls to sort through the really old stuff.'

'Nothing in there we've overlooked?'

Bodie shook his head. 'Nope. It's all circumstantial evidence, unknown contacts, unprovable connections.' 

'I know.' Doyle sighed. 'No one's ever testified against Matlock, and we reckon fifty people or more have done time for him. We just can't prove it.' 

'Well, I'm sick of it,' Bodie complained. 'I’m sick of files, I’m sick of criminals; my neck hurts, I’m getting a tension headache…’

‘Aww, no!’ Doyle couldn’t help grinning.

‘…and I feel about a hundred and three! So if you’re planning to spend the evening talking shop, you can forget going to this play. I’m going to the bloody pub.’

‘Bo- _die,_ ’ Doyle protested. ‘Christ, you can whinge!’

‘I mean it!’

‘Alright, alright. My heart’s not set on the play or anything, but since we’ve got the tickets we might as well have a look, surely? It’d be something a bit different. Bit of escapism — fancier than the cinema — bit of a treat, okay? We’re not on standby. I plan on forgetting about work altogether tonight.’

‘Alright,’ Bodie relented. ‘Oh, I bet Cal had a good laugh when you told him what we were doing.’

‘Don’t worry, I said we were doing it to meet girls.’ Doyle pulled up at a set of traffic lights and looked at his partner. He saw the tension around his eyes. He took his hand from the gear stick and laid it on Bodie’s thigh.

‘We could go tomorrow night instead. The letter said either night.’

Bodie looked instantly relieved. ‘Would you mind? It’s just…’

‘Desk work?’

‘More tiring than ten rounds with Macklin, I swear.’

Doyle nodded. ‘I know. But it’s your last day tomorrow. Then’ — he rubbed his hands together — ‘long weekend!’

‘Lucky we _both_ had leave built up,’ Bodie said through a yawn. ‘We haven’t spent any real time together for ages. Unless Cowley suddenly decides the case is urgent, and keeps you on the Colliers.’

‘Naah. We were only following up a lead. Anyway, Cowley can always send Cal. He knows them almost as well as I do. Oh, that reminds me — it’s Eileen’s thirtieth this Saturday. We’re invited.’

‘Okay.’ Bodie shrugged.

The light turned green, and Doyle drove on.

‘So, your place or mine?’ Bodie asked.

‘Mine. There’s casserole in the fridge.’

‘There’s the makings of a really good fried breakfast in mine. And some healthier stuff, you know, just in case I had a boring mate over.’

Doyle smiled at the gentle dig. ‘My place _then_ yours?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Doyle took the familiar short cut to his flat. He and Bodie had been spending equal time at each other’s places since they’d got it together properly. It wasn’t feasible to move in together while they were still with CI5, and they both liked their own space sometimes. It was nice to know that solitude was an option, even if you chose not to take it. If you didn’t count a three-month blip in the middle, where a nasty argument had escalated into a hiatus in their relationship, and culminated in Doyle threatening to get married and quit CI5, Doyle had only rarely wanted to be alone in the four years they'd been together. He still liked Bodie just as much as he loved him.

 _It'd be nice to get a place,_ he thought. _Somewhere big enough that we could have our own space, but that's ours at the same time._ _Really_ _ours_. He sighed. _If only there were some other job we could do._ He realised how disillusioned he'd become with CI5: an organisation that expected him to risk his life for causes in which he barely knew if he believed any more, and wouldn't accept him and his partner for who they were, if their relationship ever got out. He had been feeling more and more that way since he had been nearly fatally shot, two years ago. He just hadn't properly realised it till now.

‘My God, the lift works,’ Bodie said, as the doors opened obligingly for once. ‘Maybe we should stay here after all. If we abandon the building it might turn on us.’

‘Feelings of inadequacy?’

‘I’ve heard that can happen.’

‘Yeah, I doubt that’s ever bothered _you.’_ Doyle dug Bodie in the ribs. He half-expected a tussle, but Bodie just grinned and ruffled his hair. He _must_ have been tired.

They reached Doyle’s floor, and he let them into his flat, hearing the locks click in behind them. It was an automated system that Bodie had insisted be installed when Doyle moved, a few months after Mayli Kuolo had surprised him at the window. Doyle’s physical recovery from the shooting had been arduous, and it had taken a long time for the constant feeling of fear to leave him, but he felt that Bodie had been, if anything, _more_ emotionally traumatised. He’d talked about leaving work, made all sorts of plans for ‘life after CI5’, but Doyle had gone back as soon as he was fit. Leaving then would have been like giving up, and that wasn't in Doyle's nature. 

Two years later, and yes, Cowley still made him take a six-monthly physical, but he was following doctor’s orders, watching his health even more fiercely than before. He felt good. It was just... the job didn't feel the same to him now. He didn't really know why. _Maybe I'm just tired. The kind of tired that a couple of weeks' holiday won't fix. I think we both are._

‘Evening, dear, how was your day at the office?’ Bodie asked, proffering his right cheek. Doyle pecked him obligingly.

‘Really quite tedious, darling, although it was terribly exciting when that nice young postman brought in the new batch of paperclips. And you?’

‘Mind-numbing. I think I might get out of this civil service game. Go into something exciting, like chartered accountancy.’

‘As long as it doesn’t interfere with my Wednesday night meetings at the Conservative Club, my dear, you have my full support.’

‘Oh, quite, darling, and if I can’t attend my fortnightly Knitting Circle, it just wouldn’t be worth the change.’

There was a second’s silence, followed by two loud snorts of laughter.

‘You get the casserole, I’ll grab a few bits,’ said Doyle.

‘Alright, but not the _four-_ foot dildo, I’m still limping from last time.’

‘Aww, I thought it looked so good, sticking up through your throat,’ Doyle threw over his shoulder.

‘Oh, Vlad, you’re such a bad boy.’

Doyle chuckled as he went through to the bedroom. He shoved a couple of pairs of socks, underwear, three T-shirts, and an old pair of trainers — the new ones he had at Bodie’s were giving him blisters — into a carrier bag.

‘D’you need anything?’ he called.

‘Can you check the bathroom cabinet for razor blades?’

Doyle went and looked. ‘Nope, only mine here.’

‘Okay, can you remind me to get some tomorrow?' 

‘I’ll try.’ Doyle rejoined Bodie in the kitchen, bag in hand. Bodie was leaning on the countertop, drinking a beer.

‘There’s my tramp,’ Bodie said with a grin, gesturing towards Doyle and the carrier bag. He tossed over a beer, and held out his free arm. Doyle went over and settled at his side. Putting his arm around Bodie’s waist, he pulled part of his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers. Doyle slid his hand underneath, rubbing the smooth skin that covered Bodie’s rib cage, tracing his fingers over the new scar. The bullet had grazed him, but it would have punctured Bodie's lung if it had penetrated. As if he’d read his mind, Bodie kissed his temple, and then rested his head on Doyle’s shoulder. A rare, quiet moment — Doyle breathed deeply into the silence.

‘I sort of missed you,’ he admitted.

‘Does it pain you that much to work with a man whose hips are actually smaller than yours?’

‘They aren’t,’ argued Doyle.

‘They are. It’s lucky men can’t breed. If Cal and Rex crossed genes, their kids would disappear if they turned sideways.’

Doyle laughed. ‘Sara’s hips’ll be the saving grace of the Tucker family. Good breeding stock, that lass,’ he added, in a Yorkshire accent. 

‘Yeah, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’ _Typical Bodie,_ Doyle thought; he seemed to take the remark seriously. ‘I like a nice hourglass figure. She’ll be piling on the weight now she’s pregnant, though. I bet Rex’ll be paying Cal a few more visits from now on.'

'Your faith in the sacrament of marriage touches me, Bodie, it really does.' 

Bodie ignored him. 'What about Eileen? She’s slimmer than Sara. Would you call those childbearing hips?’

‘I dunno, but it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. They can’t.’

‘Oh. Shame. I could see Cal as a dad.’

‘Eileen wants to adopt, apparently. He’s thinking about it.’

‘Wouldn’t see much of the kid if he makes A-squad.’

‘That’s why he’s only _thinking_ about it.’

Bodie loosened his hold on Doyle so he could look him in the face. ‘Would you ever have thought about it?’

‘What, kids?’

‘Yeah. Say if you and I had stayed split up, and you and that Ann Holly had got it together. She was about the closest you came to it, wasn’t she?’

‘True, but — I dunno, Bodie. I thought I wanted all that at one time, but now, no, I wouldn’t swap.’ Doyle pulled him close again. ‘What about you?’

‘No, I never wanted it,’ said Bodie. ‘When I was a lot younger, I assumed I’d have to have a wife and kids at some point. It was what normal, middle-class people did. Soon as I realised it was actually up to me, that was it.’

‘Mmm.’

They finished their beers in a comfortable silence, then picked up their stuff and left Doyle’s flat. By the time the lift had reached the ground floor once again, they were telling each other silly jokes. The remainder of Bodie’s sombre mood seemed to have abated, and Doyle felt justified in looking forward to the rest of the evening.

‘Quiet night in, good food, few beers, bit of gentle lovemaking,’ he murmured, as he got back behind the wheel. He reddened slightly: even now, Bodie rarely used that word.

Bodie chuckled. ‘Sounds like we’re getting old.’ He shut the passenger door too hard, winced, and massaged the space between his eyes.

‘Just thinking out loud,’ said Doyle, over the roar of the ignition. ‘You said you felt a hundred and three.’

‘Touché. Alright. Old tonight, young tomorrow night, deal?' 

Doyle smiled sideways at him. ‘Deal.’

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
**Day 2.**   


**Wednesday, May 26.**

==================

**_Vevey. Town centre. 09:15 CEST._ **

==================

Hal left Jon asleep, and went out to get the post and the shopping as promised. He bought the food they had talked about the day before, along with fresh milk and orange juice, and their usual French and English newspapers. On the way back to the boat he went and checked the post office box to which he and Jon had their correspondence directed. Their two days' worth of post looked like a pretty good haul. There was a hardware catalogue that they both liked to look through, planning improvements to their boat. There was a letter from the bank that would, no doubt, testify to the good health of their funds. Jon’s gun magazine had come; he still liked to shoot as a hobby, and he wanted to keep his skills up to scratch, just in case he ever needed them again. Hal’s favourite London bookshop had sent a sixteenth-century Italian edition of Dante that he’d been after for months.

There was a letter from Jon’s dad — they corresponded regularly, and David had met them on Corfu in January. There was also a letter from Bodie, addressed to both of them. He wrote every few months or so. Last time he’d sounded tired. Jon reckoned he needed a change of occupation, but Jon had good reason to hate the security services. He’d worked for them against his will. Bodie, up until recently, had seemed to love his job.

At the sight of the final letter in the pile, Hal’s heart sank. He recognised his father’s handwriting on the envelope. Hal couldn’t imagine why he’d be writing now — unless something was seriously wrong.

He stopped walking. He couldn't let a thought like that hang in the air until he got home. He took a detour, bought a cup of strong black coffee, and sat by the café window to open his letter. He unfolded a heavy sheet of writing paper: the kind his father had always kept in his study.

His father's handwriting, on his father's paper. Hal's skin prickled when he read the beginning of the letter, saw the address of the house in which he'd grown up. He thought of what his name would be short for, if it weren't a nickname, a play on his surname. Henry. Jon had named him after the young Henry V when they were twelve. Hal rarely bothered to remember his real name. In truth the nickname was closer to it than he’d have liked, but the indelible link with Jon cancelled out any less pleasant associations. Hal liked to pretend he existed as a force unto himself, yet there it was, on the envelope: _Mr. O.E. Haley,_ and there, in his father's letter, _Dear Owen,_ and the past came rushing back at him, the years of his childhood when he'd answered to that name. Hal remembered one other time his father had written: an attempt to talk him into "coming home". He had flung the letter at Jon and raged about the old man's idea of "home".

'Honestly, Hal, I'm more affronted that he used the word "dear". He doesn't know the meaning of the word. But that's letter etiquette for you.' 

Hal had laughed. That had been Jon's intention, of course, but he'd had a point. There was the word again, next to a name Hal didn't even think of as _his_ anymore, in the hand of a man to whom Hal knew he _wasn't_ dear, and never had been.

Hal read the letter, and his head hurt. He stood up so suddenly that he nearly knocked over his chair. He fumbled his change when he paid for the coffee, and only just remembered his shopping. His temples pounded with stress as he walked home.

He heard the shower going when he got there, and he could smell fresh coffee. This should have been a good day. Maybe it still could be if he could get this talked out.

'Jon!' he called, more harshly than he'd meant to.

'Come in!' Jon called back. Hal put the food, papers and post down on the table in the kitchen, and walked through the bedroom to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he went. The shower door slid open; Hal stepped in, and found himself taken into a comforting embrace.

'What's wrong?' 

'The old man wants me to go to England,' Hal mumbled. 'He's got cancer. He wants to see me.'

Jon didn't say he was sorry. He asked: 'How long's he got?'

'Six months. A year, max.'

'Will you go?'

'No. He knows I won't.’ Hal’s words rushed out in a bitter, quivering rant. ‘He wants me to feel guilty, that's the only reason he's written to me. God, why would I go? I never want to see him again. After what he did to us? I'll be... _relieved_ when he's dead.' He'd almost said 'glad', but he wasn't quite sure that was true. 'Anyway, let's talk over breakfast. Let's forget it for a minute.'

'Whatever you want,' said Jon. Gently, he eased Hal around. 'I'll get this tension out of your shoulders, for starters.'

'How could I even have _contemplated_ the idea of leaving you?' Hal wondered aloud, as he leaned back into Jon's hands.

After a pause, Jon said, a little uneasily: 'As long as you come back...'

'Oh, shush. Don't talk nonsense. Mmmm.' Jon's hands were getting the better of him. 'Oh, that’s fabulous. Magic fingers, that’s what you’ve got.'

He would have relaxed, but Jon kept his half of the resolution not to talk about the letter for all of two minutes.

'Hal, you'd be quite entitled to feel sad. At _least_. Whatever he's done, he's still your father.'

'Only inasmuch as he once fucked my mother. It probably _was_ only once.'

Jon tutted. 'Hal.'

'Oh, and raised me at his expense, I dare say he'd add. Last time he said that I told him to send me the bill.' 

Jon's hands tensed. 

'That was a horrible day,' he muttered. Hal turned back around and gave him another hug. It wasn't a nice memory for either of them. They had run into Edward Haley in the office of the family lawyer, Michael Hardy, the day before they'd left England for good. After making the crack about expense, he had asked Hardy when he’d started fraternising with deviants and murderers. Jon had flown at him. Hal had pulled him back. 

_'Don't add him to your record, Jon. He's not worth it!'_

_'I'd like to see you die a painful death,'_ his father had said to Jon. His voice had been so cold, so matter-of-fact. Hal had nearly gone for his throat himself, hearing those words, but he had made himself stand up straighter instead, squaring his shoulders and looking straight into Edward Haley’s cold, grey eyes. 

_‘If you dare speak to my partner like that again, I_ promise _you that I will make you regret it.’_  

His father had just stared at them, his expression one of utter contempt. Hal had spat on the floor — much to poor Hardy's consternation — and then he'd turned his back. He had neither seen nor spoken to his father since.

Hal showed Jon the letter over breakfast. The line between his eyes deepened as he read.

'If you felt the need to make peace with him, I'd understand,' Jon said at length.

'I'm not giving him the satisfaction.' Hal put down his knife and fork, stood up from the table. 'Anyway, you wouldn't be able to come with me. I've spent too much of my life without you because of what that old bastard did to us. I'm not having him separate us again.'

Jon gave a half-smile. He took Hal's hand and pressed it to his lips. 'I don't want to be without you, either. But it needn't be more than a few days...'

'A few _minutes_ would be more than he deserves, Jonny!' Hal exhaled sharply. 'Sorry. Histrionics — thought we were over all this, didn't we?' Jon gave him a sympathetic look, but he didn't say anything. Hal felt like the walls were closing in. He turned towards the door. 'I think I need some air.'

'Alone or with company?' asked Jon.

'Alone. Sorry.'

'That's alright. I've got the papers.' He gave Hal a reassuring smile. 

Hal kissed the top of his head on the way out. He walked back into the town, too restless to stop anywhere. He just wanted to walk. He walked for a long time, to a favourite place of Jon's, with a view of the lake that took one's breath away. He tried to think of anyone but his father. Anyone but the man who'd ruled over him like a tyrant when he was a child, who'd had him committed when he found out he was gay, who'd driven Jon away to Russia with his lies.

'Draper,' said a voice at his side. A stranger's voice: a London voice. Hal stiffened by instinct. He turned to his right. 

He saw a man in his mid-thirties, with fair hair and pale, sharp features. He was clean-shaven,  slender, dressed in a tight T-shirt, a pair of well-cut jeans, and a white linen sports jacket. Hal decided in one sweeping glance that he liked what he saw, but now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. 

'Jonathan Draper,' the stranger repeated, with some impatience. Something in the way he spoke the name made Hal suspicious; it was more than just the fact that he was an Englishman who knew his partner’s name — but apparently not his face.

'Who's asking?'

'Never mind who I am, are you Draper or aren't ya?' 

'I don't answer to just any name, you know. Course I'm Draper. Who are you?'

'Name's Collier.'

The man reached into his jacket. Hal, backed up against a railing, could only stand and stare, his heart sinking as Collier produced a pistol.

'I've got a proposition for you. That is, if you're willing to listen.'

'Do I have a choice?' Hal asked, almost feeling the need to shout over the blood pounding in his ears. His only consolation was that he was alone. Jon was spared, if he could just keep Collier convinced... _though God knows how he managed to mix us up in the first place..._

'I'd say you've two choices, Draper. You can listen, or you can die now.'

Hal sighed, and folded his arms. He leaned back on the railing, facing away from the lake, the sight of the boats — in one of which the real Jonathan Draper sat reading, oblivious to the fact that his past was, for some reason, doing its best to catch him up after nearly half a decade of peace.

Trying not to look at the gun, he said: 'You'd better start talking, then.'

 

==================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 17:00 BST._ **

================== 

Wednesday came and went without any major developments. Rutherford persistently and inconsiderately refused to incriminate himself. Worse, Matlock must have got word that his chauffeur was being watched, because he was nowhere to be seen all day.

‘Eyes and ears everywhere, that old bastard,’ Maddox said grimly.

They dropped in on Tucker on the way back to HQ. Maddox wanted to replenish his supply of booze and chocolate. God only knew how he stayed so skinny. But some people were just like that. Doyle had been, once, although he found it harder these days. Bodie certainly wasn’t, and never had been. It was a blessing, to Doyle, to have to work to keep his figure: vanity was as good a reason as health-consciousness to keep eating the right stuff.

Bodie wasn’t so philosophical. His weight went up and down as much as ever, and though he’d never have admitted it, his self-esteem went along for the ride. Just now he was in between. Not as fit and trim as he got before the CI5 physical, or during a refresher course, but not his largest either. A little soft around the middle, that was all, and Doyle had always secretly liked that. It lent a sort of humanity to Bodie’s beauty, like that roguish eyebrow of his.

But it made the day seem longer to think about Bodie when he wasn’t there. It was bad enough seeing Tucker’s look of pleasant surprise when Maddox walked into the middle of his obbo. It was, Doyle reflected, just how Bodie had looked at _him_ whenever he’d done the same thing. Like the time he’d dropped in with a bottle of Scotch during that case with the South African assassin.

There was another debriefing with Cowley, who seemed to take it personally that Rutherford hadn’t spent the day out in the middle of Oxford Street, dealing in hard drugs and nuclear weapons, just to help them wrap up the case.

‘Special Branch nipping at our heels and you can’t give me more than this? Maddox, I want you on obbo. Keep an eye on the Colliers. Doyle, get some rest while you can, you’ll be relieving him at midnight.’

‘But…’

‘I’ll have someone relieve you at seven. Don’t worry, you’ll still get your leave. Unless of course there are any major developments.' 

‘Sir,’ Doyle mournfully assented. But at least he’d still get to that play with Bodie. It seemed a shame to waste the tickets. He’d had an old mate from his beat copper days check out the theatre, in case of a setup, but it was a standard thing: the theatre gave tickets away every month. And the start of the evening boded well for the rest: Doyle beat the traffic home, and Bodie arrived at his place on time, in a better mood than he’d been the day before. He greeted Doyle with a grin and a kiss.

‘Ahh, hello.’

‘Hello yourself.’ Doyle grinned back.

‘Time for a quick shower?’

‘Yeah, don’t be long, though.’

‘Hmm? Oh, you’re coming too.’ Bodie tried to march him towards the bathroom, but Doyle stayed still. 

‘I’ve had _my_ shower. In case you hadn’t noticed, Bodie, I’m all ready to go.’

‘Sorry, Ray, but that’s just not acceptable, you clearly missed a bit — oi!’ 

Doyle had thrown a wet dishcloth at him. He ran for the bathroom with Bodie hot on his heels. Showering together made them leave late, and even with Bodie’s driving they only just arrived in time for the play, both with slightly damp hair. 

It was a small theatre, with a narrow doorway opening off the street into a dingy little box office and bar. The auditorium itself was accessible down a flight of steps. There was no reserved seating. Doyle gave in the letter he’d received in the post, picked up their tickets and a program that had been left for them. Charmingly, the cover was hand-drawn. A group of people in '20s-style clothes, with exquisite detail on the faces and hands. Doyle had always admired art like that, and tried to emulate it. 

‘That’s nice,’ Bodie remarked, once they’d sat down. Doyle grunted an acknowledgement. He was looking at the signature — his insides did a funny sort of lurch. _R. Donovan._ Doyle was acutely reminded of someone else of that surname, someone he’d known a long time ago. He’d been talented at drawing, too. Doyle flicked through the program, looking for the full name of the artist. He didn’t really know why he did it. _Not going to be him, is it?_ he chided himself.

‘Hey — looks like the artist is also our lead actress,’ Bodie said, pointing. ‘See that? Rebecca, played by Rachel Donovan.’

‘Talented girl,’ Doyle said absently. _He had a sister called Rachel. I’d forgotten. She was just starting school when…_

‘Oooh, what’s this?’ Bodie laughed. ‘Yeah, I s’pose she _would_ be your type, wouldn’t she? Bit of culture, bit of creative talent.’

‘Shut up,’ Doyle said.

‘Well, why not?’ Bodie asked, shrugging. Leaning over, he added more quietly: ‘Honestly. If it turns out you _do_ fancy her, why not?’

‘What?’

Doyle looked at him in surprise, and amusement, then frowned, watching for the trap. But Bodie looked quite serious.

‘We never swore any oaths, did we? Oh, go on, Ray. You’re obviously intrigued already.’

‘But we haven’t been with other people in ages.’

‘Haven’t wanted to — ‘ve you?’

‘No.’

‘All I’m saying is, you don’t _need_ my permission, but I’m giving it to you.’

Doyle didn’t get the chance to reply. Up went the curtain, and onto the stage walked Rachel Donovan.

 

==================

_‘Hello. What’s your name?’_

_‘Rachel. What’s yours?’_

_‘I’m Ray. I’m your brother’s friend.’_

_Rachel puts her thumb into her mouth._

_‘Is Mal in?’ Ray asks, gently._

_‘Ye-es.’_

_‘Can I…’_

_He stops, looking up the narrow staircase. Mal is standing at the top. The light coming through the round window behind him makes his hair look like a halo, but his grin isn’t angelic. His grin is promising things you can go to hell for._

_‘Come on up, Ray! Don’t mind my sister, she’s just a bit shy. Let Ray in, Rachel, he’s alright.’_

 

==================

The play was a murder mystery set in the 1920s, done in the style of Agatha Christie but not nearly so well. Bodie guessed the murderer halfway through the first act, and looked forward to the interval so he could see if Doyle had the same thoughts. _Bloody copper, he probably got it in the first ten minutes. Bloody Doyle, he’ll be trying to convince me he got it in five._ He smiled sideways at his partner, but Doyle didn’t notice. He was too engrossed in the play. Or the girl, probably. Blondes weren’t necessarily Doyle’s type, but Rachel Donovan had the sort of delicate, damsel-in-distress look that had always captured him. 

‘So who d’you think did it, then?’ he asked, when the curtain went down.

‘Butler,’ Doyle said absently.

‘There _is_ no… oh, very funny.’

‘Sorry?’ Doyle blinked, and looked at Bodie, who couldn’t suppress a grin.

‘Jesus Christ.’ He drew the words out. ‘You need to get this out of your system. Leg is to over as Doyle is to peace of mind. To put it academically.’ Doyle snorted, and Bodie went on: ‘Dare you to go backstage afterwards. You’ll have three hours to woo her before you’ve got to be back on obbo. Tell her it’s a dangerous mission, that always works a treat.' 

‘Hmm, maybe I will.’ Doyle murmured. Bodie knew he’d only been half listening. He blinked again, cleared his throat, and said: ‘Sorry, miles away. My round here, yours after the show?’

‘Not if you get your leg over.’

‘ _Excuse_ me.’ A scowling woman pushed past them to the end of the row. Bodie heard her mutter: ‘Male chauvinist pigs.’

‘Why, that eavesdropping bitch!’

Doyle burst out laughing at his tone. Bodie smiled ruefully. ‘Well, did you hear…’

‘It’s not that.’ Doyle’s shoulders continued to shake. ‘I love it when you sound posh without meaning to.’

Bodie shuddered theatrically. ‘I’ll never get that school out of my system. How am I meant to perpetuate my image as’ — he injected the appropriate amount of Liverpool into his voice — ‘a rough working-class lad?’

‘Well, you’re that too,’ said Doyle. He stood up and put a hand on Bodie’s shoulder. ‘I’ll get the drinks in. And you can buy me one after the show, because I’m going backstage to _talk_ to her for a few minutes. That’s it.’

His fingers pressed briefly into the hard muscle of Bodie’s upper arm before he left the auditorium. No one watching would have detected the change in pressure, and if they did, they could have interpreted it in a thousand ways. Only Bodie knew it was a loving touch.


	4. Chapter 4

  
**Day 3.**

**Thursday, May 27.**

==================

**_London. Obbo flat. 00:23 BST._ **

==================

Doyle was twenty minutes late to relieve Maddox, and Doyle was _never_ late. Maddox looked him over. He hadn’t got laid and forgotten the time. The lines of his clothing were immaculate; no sign of having got dressed in a hurry. There was a faint smell of old leather overlying his aftershave. Cheap theatre seats. He probably _had_ been where he said he had. The play had run late, Doyle was relieving a friend whom he knew would understand, so no stress, no rush. It could have been that simple. 

But something had happened. There was a brightness, a different sort of alertness, in his eyes, as if the memory of an incident, significant but not stressful, were playing itself over in his head. There was also a flush of colour along his cheekbones, and it wasn’t from running. Those shoes would have scuffed, but they still looked freshly polished. Judging by the faint brown smudge down the outer side of his right thumb, he’d buffed them up before leaving for the theatre that evening. And if he’d been running, there would have been notes of perspiration along with the leather and aftershave, but Maddox’s nose detected nothing. 

He could have wound Doyle up about it, but he wouldn’t learn anything that way.

‘Alright, Ray?’

‘Christ, it’s like an oven in here. I’m fine, Cal, how are you?’

Maddox stretched. ‘Bored. Tired. Hot. Hungry.’

‘Well, at least you get to go home now.’

‘Mmm, Eileen’s keeping shepherd’s pie warm for me.’

‘Hope that’s not the only thing she’s keeping warm.’

‘Oh, that’s _always_ warm, don’t you worry.’ _And I might just have the energy left,_ he added to himself, as a yawn crept up on him. Doyle gave him an affectionate grin, then yawned in turn.

‘Bloody catching,’ he muttered. ‘Anything to report, or is that a stupid question?’

‘Nothing,’ Maddox replied, as he started to pack up his stuff. His position, in an attic flat, allowed him to see the house where George Collier lived with his young family, and Joe’s caravan at the bottom of their garden. The house was only a couple of streets from the garage, so he could watch that, too. ‘No one’s been near the garage since they shut up shop at half-four. Georgie-boy’s been in all evening. He and Joe played football with the kids, then Joe went out for a couple of hours and George helped his wife put the kids to bed. They watched telly till eleven. Lewis followed Joe; he just went to the pub and talked to some mate of his who was having girl trouble. Didn’t even have the decency to pull. Least I’d’ve had something interesting to watch.’

‘Ah, well. I’ll see you later.’

They both stiffened at the sound of footsteps on the bare wood of the staircase. Doyle took out his gun. Noiselessly, Maddox put his bag down on the floor, and checked his shoulder holster. But then he heard something else: a rhythmic punctuation of the footsteps, like the hard toe of a boot knocking against each step as he passed it. He breathed out and picked up his bag again.

‘It’s okay,’ he told Doyle. ‘It’s Rex.’ He frowned. ‘Did Cowley send him?’

Doyle shrugged.

‘Knock knock!’ Rex put his head around the door. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, he carried nothing but a torch, and he looked a bit tipsy. Maddox asked: ‘Are you on duty?’

‘Nope. Just came to pick you up.’

‘I’ve got my car.’ Maddox grinned. Rex grinned back, and said: ‘I know, that’s why I got the night bus.’

‘See you later, Ray,’ Maddox said, picking up his bag again. Rex waved, and mumbled a goodbye. Doyle waved them out, saying: ‘Yeah, yeah, have fun.’

‘You know, I promised Eileen I’d be home before one,’ Maddox said, making his tone scold a little.

‘I know you did,’ said Rex. ‘Not asking you to break your promise. But I was in the area, so…’

Maddox looked at him. ‘Were you?’

‘Sort of. I was closer to here than home. You know Kenny Johnson?’ He paused, and Maddox nodded. ‘Came in to meet him for darts.’

‘Who won?’

‘He did.’

‘Aww, shame.’ Maddox slung an arm around his shoulders. Rex looked at him, turned off and pocketed the torch, backed him into the wall of the dark stairwell, and kissed him. 

‘I only said yes cos it’d give me an excuse to be out,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I wanted to see you.’

Maddox could see the glint of eyes and teeth in the moonlight, and the black, familiar outline of Rex, so close to him. Deep down Maddox knew it was because Sara was pregnant and her moods were driving him crazy — or could it be, really, that he felt this strongly?

‘I’m hardly complaining, Rex, am I?’ Maddox kissed him back, holding him around the waist, while Rex cradled Maddox’s neck in both hands, sometimes, in his ardour, squeezing a little too hard. It wasn’t just from passion that Maddox was panting, when Rex broke the kiss and hugged him instead.

‘D’you reckon we’ve got time to pull over somewhere on the way home?’ He breathed the question into Maddox’s ear.

‘If we leave right now, maybe. Bloody Doyle, he picked a great night to be late for the changeover.’

Rex tugged his sleeve, and they hurried out to the car. Neither of them said a word until they were out of central London, and Maddox pulled off the road under a canopy of trees. They didn’t reach for each other straightaway. They sat side-by-side, adjusting to the new darkness and silence.

‘Cal, the closer I get to being a dad, the more I wish I wasn’t.’

Maddox smiled, though he knew Rex couldn’t see. ‘That’s just nerves. It’s a big step.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Rex laid a hand on Maddox’s thigh and stroked him firmly from knee to groin. ‘I feel guilty enough lying to Sara, but when there’s a kid as well…’ He trailed off.

‘D’you want to stop, then?’ Maddox was glad Rex couldn’t see his face now. He wouldn’t have been able to hide his crushing disappointment. And it wouldn't be fair to bring his own emotions into it, when Rex was already conflicted.

‘That’s just it,’ said Rex. ‘I can’t.’ He kissed Maddox’s mouth, then his neck. ‘I can’t stop. I can’t.' 

Maddox didn’t touch him. ‘I don’t want to be the one who breaks up your marriage.’

‘You won’t!’ Rex sucked on his earlobe, trailed kisses all along his jawline. ‘I won’t let it happen. Not now there’s a child in the mix.’

‘But if it weren’t for that…’

Rex barked out a laugh. ‘Cal, don’t you get it? If Sara wasn’t pregnant... I’d leave her in a heartbeat for you. Do I have to make it plainer?’

‘I could never leave Eileen,’ Maddox said slowly, as what Rex was telling him sank in.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to. We couldn’t live together at any rate; Cowley’d really get suspicious then, wouldn’t he? I just… well, I just don’t like women that much. Sexually, I mean. I’d rather live alone when all’s said and done. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sticking by Sara, and I’m going to be a good dad to the baby, but if it weren’t for that…’

‘Rex, is this you coming out?’

Rex laughed again. ‘God, it’s fucked up, isn’t it?’

‘You could say that.’ Maddox took a deep breath. ‘Well, you know _I’m_ not gay. Not completely. But I, erm…’ He sighed. ‘If you didn’t know it already, you mean as much to me as she does.’

‘Ah, Cal. I didn’t _let_ myself know it.’ Rex’s breath was hot against his neck, and his embrace was like the grip of a vise.

‘C’mere.’ Maddox took Rex’s hand and climbed into the back seat. He pulled Rex down on top of him. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’

 

 

==================

**_London. Dressing room of R. Donovan. 21:45 BST._ **

==================

Doyle leaned against the door, watching Rachel’s reflection in the mirror as she took off her makeup. Now and again she lifted a cigarette from the ashtray on her dressing-table and put it to her lips. Her hair, once she'd unpinned it, stood out around her face in a mass of false curls, but there was nothing false about the white-blonde colour. _His_ hair — Mal's hair — had been the same. Her shift had ridden up when she sat down, and the straps stood up a little on her slender shoulders. They asked to be eased down. 

Doyle wondered if he dared. He was out of practice at seduction. At the end of a CI5 working day, seduction meant bothering to shower first. And anyway, this was _Rachel._ Apart from their conversation of last night, the last time he had seen her, she had been five years old. Even looking at her now, at twenty-eight, she seemed incredibly young. But nine years was not the gap it had been once, when she had been no more than a passing consideration, the pesky little sister whom he wished would keep out the way. It was her brother who had consumed his thoughts.

 

===============

_'What on earth are you doing?'_

_Mal has seen him in the mirror. He turns around with laughter in his eyes._

' _What do you think, eh?' He purses his reddened lips. The silk nightie is slipping from his thin shoulders. He stands up, unsteady in his mother's high heels. One hand goes to his hip. 'Do you think I look pretty, Ray?'_

_'Ye-es,' Ray admits, biting his lip. 'But you're better when you're just you.'_

' _Hm.' Mal huffs a little. He turns back to the mirror, wipes off the lipstick. He stands again, out of the shoes and onto his bare feet. He shrugs his shoulders, and the gown falls to the floor in a soft rush of fabric. He steps up to Ray, unclothed._

 _'The things I do for love,' he murmurs. The word slips as easily from his mouth as his mother's best nightgown had slipped from his body. His eyes still dance with humour. He doesn't mean it like Ray wants him to. At least — Ray doesn't_ think _he means it._

 

================

'Did Mal used to dress up for you?' Rachel asked, as she shrugged on her jacket. 'Mum says she caught him at it once. Hard to know which one of them was more mortified.'

'It wasn't something I actively encouraged,' Doyle said shortly. 'If that's what you're asking.' 

'Mal was everything he was without your help, Ray. You were just the one he wanted to please. Having seen your partner, I can understand why it _didn't_ please you.' 

'It didn't _not_ please me,' said Doyle. 'Mal could've put on a clown suit and a jester's cap and I'd've felt the same about him.'

'And if he'd been a girl?' 

Suddenly, it seemed like she was standing much closer to him than before. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck before she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. It was a strange feeling, looking down into that face — delicately beautiful, weirdly familiar, so close and yet so far. Doyle felt a low heat begin to rise through his body: a heat he was determined to ignore.

'Then he'd have looked just like you,' he replied, in a tone that suggested he knew what she was up to, but wasn't going to be impolite about it. 'And he'd probably still be alive.'

'Yes,' said Rachel. 'So it's lucky that life can sometimes deal out consolation prizes, isn't it, Ray? Don't —' she pressed her fingers gently against his mouth when he opened it to protest '— don't say what you were going to say. Listen to me first. Think how I felt when I lost my brother. I was just a child. I didn't understand. I didn't _know_ him. But I can know _you._ I can touch the boy who stood beside him in that fight, watched him die, nearly died himself.' She reached up; her fingers brushed Doyle's broken cheekbone. 'I can touch the boy who touched _him_ — I can feel what he felt, just for an hour or so. You can give me an _hour_ , can't you, Ray?'

 _No, I can’t,_ Doyle thought. _And the fact that you’ve asked is appalling. And, frankly, a bit morbid._

He surprised himself when he pushed the dressing-room door shut, grasped her hips, and pushed her against it with the force of his body colliding with hers. When he kissed her he could almost have wept. The shape of her lips, the softness of them as they moved under his… the gentle, knowing press of her tongue… he kept his eyes shut as her fingers worked at his belt and the buttons of his jeans… legs hooked around his waist and the door took her weight… he was ready for her when she nudged his cock past the fabric of her knickers and then pulled him forward to guide him in… 

Not where he’d expected to go. Her moan was partly pained, but she’d prepared herself in advance; she’d known he would succumb. Had she known even when she posted him the tickets, switching the addresses on the promotional envelope? She’d admitted that, at least, but this… there had been a pot of Vaseline on the dressing table when he walked in; he’d thought she used it to take off her makeup… his entrance was smooth, slick, tight, he felt a jolt, nearly came straightaway in his shock at where she’d taken him. He and Mal had never got this far, but Rachel must have assumed. He opened his eyes and stared at her, not moving an inch. She looked back at him through too-familiar eyes.

‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. ‘It’s good. Just go easy. Come on.’ 

Mal’s voice hadn’t yet broken when he died. She sounded just like him when she said Doyle’s name. Doyle closed his eyes and pretended; he refused to think about what she was getting out of this. He said a name — the wrong name — but was it? Wasn’t it his voice who answered? Wasn’t this just carrying on what that gang fight had interrupted, twenty years ago? Maybe Malcolm Andrew Donovan hadn’t died at all.

 

===================

_‘Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll fight. I know I don’t look like I could, but I can.’_

_‘I know, Mal, I didn’t mean…’_

_Ray does know. He’s heard about last week from several quarters, what happened when he and his parents were on their way back from Butlins. The whole street’s talking about it. Mal Donovan, that gentle kid who hangs around the field to sketch the footballers, can hold his own in a scrap, who’d’ve thought? That put to bed a few rumours that he’s a poof — the kids on their street look at him with a new respect now._

_Harry West is the unofficial leader of their group. He’s the biggest and the toughest, and he used to taunt Mal for having blond curls and running like a girl. But by the time Ray got back, he’d changed his tune._

_‘Now you’re here, Ray, there’s eight of us. We can have a real go at the Baxter gang. You know they dragged my sister four streets by her hair? And they would’ve made Mal’s sister eat dog shit in the park if he hadn’t stuck up for her. And that’s not to mention nearly putting Billy Marks in hospital. Doctor says he can’t play football for the rest of the season!’_

_Ray knows Harry’s right. But now they’ve arranged a time and place, the thought of the fight scares him. He looks at Mal, lying in his arms, so peaceful until a moment ago._

_‘It’s just — I don’t want to see you get hurt.’_

_Mal looks scornful. ‘Well, I don’t want to see_ you _get hurt. Shall we both run away? Let Mike Baxter and his lads get away with terrorising our girls? Turn our back on our own?’_

_He is unusually flushed. The bruise along his jaw, and another darkening his left ribs, is a stark reminder of what their neighbourhood’s come to. Ray isn’t without bruises, either — or threats. The last time he saw Baxter, he threatened to smash Ray’s face in with a bottle. But Mal’s eyes are fiery and his expression is determined. Ray remembers the tear-stained face of Emily West, imagines how scared little Rachel Donovan must have been, surrounded by all those older boys. Something of the same kind stirs in him. A fledgling knowledge that you can’t stand by and let injustice happen. You have to fight it._

_‘No,’ Ray says grimly. ‘We’ll stick by ‘em, alright.’_

_‘My hero,’ Mal replies: tongue-in-cheek, but still — Ray_ knows _he’s made the right choice. He gives Mal a fierce kiss on the lips._

_‘Besides, I wouldn’t let you down for the world.’_

_‘Me neither.’ Mal kisses him back. ‘You know, we might have to fight for_ us _one day, Ray. If the lads found out they’d turn on us.’_

‘That’s _when we run, then,’ Ray tells him._

 

====================

 _‘That was wrong, Rachel,’_ he wanted to say. Neither incest nor necrophilia, it somehow seemed like both, now it was over, fading from action to memory. He thought of Mal, over twenty years dead. He thought of Bodie, at home, real and alive and loving and, just, _there…_ Doyle’s skin crawled with discomfort at what he’d done. Yet he heard himself say: ‘Can I see you again?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, as she straightened her clothes. ‘But not like that. That was one time, only. I just wanted to know what it felt like.’

‘You know it isn’t the same for a man.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She shrugged. ‘Was good anyway. But that’s not the point. Don’t you understand? He died, in part, for me. Defending me and the other kids who were being bullied by that gang. And I hardly knew him. I wanted to understand him. Feel like him. Love the man he loved.’

‘And now you have?’

‘Yes.’ She donned her jacket for the second time. ‘So you can go back to your partner, Ray Doyle. Back to the present. Maybe the past’ll rest easier now.’

‘Maybe.’ _Maybe I’ve just ruined the present. However okay Bodie seemed with the idea of me and her — what if_ I _can’t live with it?_

‘Ring me tomorrow,’ said Rachel, picking up her handbag. ‘We could have a friendly drink.’

‘Uh, yeah. Course.’

‘Come on,’ she prompted. ‘Off with you. I want to freshen up before I go home.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ Doyle said. He managed a weak smile before he turned and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

**  
Day 4.**

**Friday, May 28.**  

=================

**_Lake Geneva, off Vevey. 07:00 CEST._ **

==================

‘So when exactly are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Hal?’

Hal, sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed, jumped at the sound of Jon’s voice. He half-turned to face Jon, looking irked. Perhaps the patient expression Jon was putting on didn’t help, but he was determined to be as irksome as possible until Hal talked.

‘How long have you been awake?’ mumbled Hal.

‘Half a minute, maybe? Unlike you. You were awake when I woke up around three, and you were awake when I went to sleep around one. You, who could sleep through the sinking of the Titanic these days — what the hell? Tell me. Is it the letter?’

 _‘Draper, I reply to your letter only to inform you of the death of my son,’_ Hal muttered.

‘Hey,’ Jon said warningly. He felt the blood rise in his cheeks, and the clenching of his insides that always accompanied the memory of those words. _That_ letter was a forbidden subject.

_‘It appears that ultimately, he could not live with the sin you had induced him to commit.’_

‘Stop it. Stop it!’ Jon kicked Hal in the back. The fact that Hal could repeat the letter, word-for-word, in his father’s voice, and either didn’t know or didn’t care how much it hurt, just made things worse. He barely seemed to have registered being kicked, either, but that was just as well: it had been a brief fit of temper on Jon’s part, and they had sworn three years ago that they wouldn't get violent again, after their last fight had landed them both in hospital. Anyway, these days, he had a feeling he’d lose.

‘And I’m going, after all,’ Hal said, between his teeth. ‘I’ll see his face before he dies. Hateful man.’ He turned away again, and buried his face in his hands.

‘You decided to go?’ 

 _Now that’s not right,_ Jon thought, even as he asked the question. He sat up, forgiving Hal straightaway for being morose and insensitive. Fear and stress did that to him. Jon felt half-guilty that he hadn’t recognised the mood, but Hal’s happiness had been uninterrupted for years now; he was no longer used to watching for the signs. Jon chewed his lip, a million questions running through his head, to none of which Hal would provide him with a sensible answer. Not yet. He’d become passionately affectionate before he was willing to talk. That was just how Hal worked.

Jon joined him on his side of the bed, touched him lightly on the arm. Hal caught Jon up in a crushing embrace so sudden that even though he’d been expecting it, his heart still leapt to his mouth.

‘I’m sorry to leave you for this. I'm leaving today, this morning — couldn't get the words out to tell you — I'm so sorry, Jonny.'

‘Nothing to forgive,’ Jon said, in spite of the uncomfortable tightness in his chest and stomach. ‘It was you who was determined you wouldn’t go.’ He moved back so Hal could see his face when he spoke. ‘I’d be glad you changed your mind, if I weren’t selfishly wishing you’d stay.’ _Except you didn’t change your mind, did you? You’re lying to me. Why?_ He went on nonetheless: ‘Even lovers can’t stand in the way of blood ties, sweetheart.’ He gave Hal a rueful, close-lipped smile, and gripped his shoulder, like a friend. 

Hal squeezed his eyes shut for a second — always a danger sign — and looked at Jon as if he were mad or stupid. ‘Rubbish! You know if it wouldn’t put your life at risk I’d be dragging you along with me. Facing this alone is a nightmare!’ Hal clutched at his hair; Jon thought: _Liar. There’s no room in this for me_. Hal went on, but this time Jon knew he spoke the truth. 

‘And God, blood ties — don’t you think I’d spit on them if I could? Did blood pick a boy up out of numbness and loneliness, and give him the only love he’d had in his life?’ He shook Jon hard by the shoulders. ‘Did a blood relative kill for him? Ruin his life for him? Nearly die for him?' Hal pressed his lips together, dropped his hands; his eyes followed them to his lap. Jon covered them with his own. Hal went on speaking.

'I've hated parting from you since the first time I went home from school. I thought we'd finished parting. I never thought I'd have to leave you again’ _—_ Hal’s voice softened, and cracked — ‘even just for a few days.’

‘A few days,’ Jon said, trying to cling to reality, rather than losing himself in his partner. ‘Is that how long?’

Hal held Jon’s face in both hands. ‘Three, maybe four days, beloved. That’s all, I swear.’ 

 _You wouldn’t get this upset about less than a week apart,_ Jon thought, as he watched Hal’s eyes fill. _Even I wouldn’t, not now. It ought to be all smiles, quick hug, quick kiss, quick ‘bye, Jon, love you, enjoy the peace and quiet…'_

Hal kissed Jon fiercely, pulled him suffocatingly close again, but it was fear that seemed to crush Jon’s chest, not Hal’s embrace. He felt wired, twitchy. _Don’t like this. Don’t like it. Alarm bells. What the fuck is going on, Hal? You’re terrified you’ll never see me again. Why?_

‘I’ll miss you like crazy,’ Jon said out loud, with one hand on the back of Hal’s head, trying to give comfort, making himself seem calm on the outside. ‘But it can’t be helped.' 

‘No,’ Hal said. ‘No, it can’t. Fucking arsehole, he rules me even now. But not for long.’

 _Journal. Pistol. Ammo. Binoculars. Cash — we’ve still got plenty of English notes in the safe, and Hal won’t take all of them. Do I still have that West German passport? Never mind, I know I’ve got the French one. Camera, just in case. Walkman. My birthday mix tape, best one Hal’s ever made, can’t leave that. Compass. Tripod. Might not be able to borrow one as good. Rifle won’t be a problem, if it comes to it. That mate of Dmitri's..._ Jon rubbed Hal’s back, and said aloud: ‘No, Hal, not for long.’ Inside, he asked: _Why kill a man who’s already dying?_

Hal leaned forward, easing Jon onto his back, and said: ‘Want to say goodbye to you properly.’ 

 _How long have we got?_ Jon thought, glancing at the clock. _Ah, it’s okay, he’s just missed a train._ He kicked off his pyjama bottoms, as Hal stripped off the shorts he was wearing and reached into the bedside drawer for what they needed.Jon spread his thighs and pulled his partner between them with one foot hooked around his waist. At the first preparatory push of Hal’s slippery fingers, and the murmuring of passionate nonsense in Jon’s ear that wasn’t Hal-like at all, Jon was thinking: _If I take the bike I’ll beat any taxi to the station, even with a head start._ ‘My love, I know. Me too,’ he said, in answer to a particularly lovely part of the nonsense. ‘Always.’ He gasped and sighed. ‘Okay, come on, let’s get the show on the road.’ _No question that he’ll go overland. Hal hates flying. And…_ he lost his train of thought when Hal penetrated him _… if… if…_ ‘ahhh, yeah, sweetheart, fuck me…’ _no, he won’t see me. It’s set too firmly in his head that we’re…_ ‘oh God…’ _separating…_ ‘oh God…’ _but if he does I’ll just tell him I wanted…_ ‘oh, Hal…’ _one more goodbye…_ ‘love you…’ _he’ll believe that…_ ‘love you so much…’ _wish he’d tell me who’s…_ ‘oh, fuck that's good …’ _making him do this…_ ‘yes, just…’ _he’d never just decide to…_ ‘ah, yeah, Jesus, Hal…’ _he wouldn’t be so scared, either…_ ‘oh yeah…’ _so there must be…_ ‘so good, so close…’ _someone else…_

‘Jon!’ Hal gasped. They cried out together, froze, staring at each other, and then exchanged a smile. Neither of them had lasted long, despite Jon having been distracted. His eyes strayed back to the clock as Hal stretched out on top of him. _Four minutes? When did we get so efficient? What happened to making it last, making it special?_

They hadn’t needed to, had they? They’d learnt to take each other for granted. Anyway, wasn’t faster better? Hadn’t they used to race? Jon felt suddenly bereft. Eleven and a half stone of weight pressing down on him, and it was like Hal was already gone.

‘You’re not going yet, are you?’ Jon wondered at the high, desperate sound of his own voice. So long since he’d felt like this. He had thought that he’d never have to go through it again.

‘There’s a train at ten,’ Hal murmured.

‘So we’ve time for more. That was so quick. I mean — it was great, but it wasn’t enough. Not three days’ worth, you know?’

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘I love you.’ Jon could have wept, but there wasn’t time.

Hal raised his head and looked solemnly into Jon’s eyes. ‘I love you too. Tell me what you want.’

‘More of the same.’ Jon ran his thumb across Hal’s left cheekbone. ‘Sitting up, though. Long and slow.’ He kissed Hal on the mouth. ‘Holding each other tight. And you mark me. Scar me.' He ran his finger over the right spot. 'Just here, where the pulse beats in my neck. A love bite to last a week. Okay?’ _Bastard, it’ll need a lifetime if you don’t watch yourself._  

Hal smiled. ‘If you’ll give me something in return.’

‘Anything. What?’

‘A Polaroid.’ He laughed at the look on Jon’s face. ‘Nothing like that, moron. I want you to look like you were just before, but into my camera. All that emotion in your eyes, I want it.’

‘You make love to me again, I’ll give you all the emotion you want,’ Jon told him. ‘My eyes are yours to command.’

‘Most beautiful eyes on earth.’ He was close enough that Jon felt the quivering whisper of movement against his own lips, just before Hal kissed him.

They were the last words Jon remembered Hal saying before he packed and left. But they weren’t bad, as last words go.

 

==================

**_London. West End. 17:15 BST._ **

==================

English breezes are like no others in Europe. Probably the world. I admit I felt a little thrill as the wind ruffled my shirtsleeves. For one thing, it's far hotter in Spain at this time of year. That's why legions of British tourists flock there every year to let the sun scorch their skins off their bodies. It's certainly why my parents moved there, when I was fifteen. My father started a business, manufacturing computer parts. He was always good with his hands — he was a plumber before he met my mother. Now he rakes in enough to match her war widow's pension and the interest from her inheritance. He feels good about himself. And when he retires, I shall have his business, and I shall make it grow. They say in ten years every home will have its own personal computer; well, I say that if that happens, James Bodie's firm will have produced a good number of them.

The day I was surprised by that breeze, I was in London, an unscheduled stop after I'd concluded a deal in Brussels. The day before, I'd rung to check in on my family, and Mum asked if I'd heard from my elder brother lately. I hadn't, so I thought I'd give him a ring. I know him pretty well, even though we live in different countries, so I could tell straightaway that something was wrong. I thought: where's the harm? Bella won't mind if I take an extra day or two. So I told Will I was coming through his neck of the woods, and he said he'd meet me for a drink.

William Bodie, my wild, wayward big brother. I can hardly believe some of his stories. He's nearly twelve years older than me, and he left home when I was tiny, so I didn't really know him until I was about to start my O-Levels. That was when he turned up at my parents' house in Spain, after years in Africa. He was no longer the schoolboy from my vague, toddler memories. He was tall, and hard-looking. He'd been a mercenary. Our father didn't even want him in the house. My mother, Will's stepmother, felt differently; she made Dad see reason. So Will stayed with us for two months, while he decided what to do next.

One of the first things he did was to sit me down alone and grill me on my education — or, something of that kind.

' _So, you're at my alma mater now.'_

I nodded.

_'I thought you went somewhere else.'_

_'It burnt down in the hols, four years ago. Mum and Dad needed to find a place for me at short notice. It made sense.'_

_'I suppose they neglected to mention that I was almost raped by a teacher while I was there.'_  

I'll never forget what his eyes looked like when he said those words. Even though he wasn't looking at me. I immediately went scarlet — I could feel it — and I felt awkward and stupid for doing so. I knew he was only telling me to protect me. I knew he was worried about what might have happened to _me_ there.

 _'Yes, they did neglect to mention it,'_ I replied stiffly. _'But I found out anyway. A friend told me. His two uncles were at the school when it happened.'_

_'His uncles?'_

_'Yeah. Robbie and Frank Ashford. Their elder brother Roderick is my best friend's father.'_

_'Roddy Ashford,'_ said Will, and a smile briefly crossed his face. _'I remember him. He was the most popular boy in his year.'_

_'His son’s the same. Luke. We call him Ash. Anyway, I told him if the teacher were still here I'd kill him. Ash said a friend of yours beat me to it. He also said that Father Walters has conducted strict background checks on all his staff since it happened. He never hires anyone with even a hint of history. I've never even heard of abuse, let alone experienced it, so don't worry about me, Will.'_

He nodded, and it still frightened me a bit to look into his eyes. But then he reached out and hugged me. I was too stunned to do anything, but I didn't mind. He was my brother, after all, even if he was only my half-brother and I hadn't seen him in twelve years. Then, in a voice all full with emotion and higher than his usual deep growl, he said: _'You were hardly more than a baby when I left. When Lydia told me where you were going to school I could have hit her. The thought of the same thing happening to you... you're just a kid like I was, Jamie. I want you to have a real life. The one I ought to have had.'_

I came to my senses — put my arms around him and told him that maybe it wasn't too late. He laughed, which threw me, because I didn't know him then. Then he sat back, and asked me if any of the boys at school had come on to me. I said they had, but I'd turned them down. I didn't say I was having second thoughts about Ash. But I might as well have, because the next thing Will did was come out to me. I tried not to seem as shocked as I felt, but I don't think I fooled him. Naively I asked if it was because of the teacher, and he just snorted; he seemed amused rather than offended. At least he understood me leaping to that conclusion. He said it was just the way he was, and the teacher had nothing to do with it. He told me his whole history — boys, girls, this strange episode in Africa with a Catholic missionary who was killed by a car bomb; another, tragic story of a girl he loved, who was shot at close range by a mercenary Will was then working for. All the words came out like he was in a dream, and he looked out the window the entire time he was speaking. I just think he needed to tell _somebody_ these things. But he also — and I know this, because he told me himself — wanted me to know so that I could use the information to make better decisions. It wasn't advice, he said; it was knowledge — knowledge he wished he'd had at my age. Telling me was a bit like being able to go back and tell his younger self. He said Lydia would kill him if she knew what he'd said, so please not to tell her. I swore I wouldn't.

I didn't really _use_ the knowledge my brother gave me. But I came away thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread, and I wanted to be, if not just like him, a less extreme version of him. I'd do what he couldn't — I'd finish school, go to university, make him and my parents really proud. But then, I thought, maybe I'd become a soldier, a legitimate one, just like Will did, a few months later (I didn't, in the end). 

And I wanted to be, well, I then thought of it as _liberal_ , like he was. I think, to be honest, that what he'd told me on _that_ subject had the opposite effect to what he'd hoped. I let myself fantasise about that friend of mine, Ash, and one of the first things I did when I went back to school was tell him I'd changed my mind. We both turned out straight, but we went all round the houses to find that out, chasing girls together, experimenting alone together, and the bond we forged during our school days has never broken. Like the bond my brother forged with me, because even after twelve years of absence, he still loved me enough to tell me the most painful parts of his life story. He remembered the toddler I'd been when he left, and and wanted to save him. Now we're good mates, and he still confides in me, because I listen and I don't try to bullshit him. That's why I was in London that Friday afternoon, because I knew from his voice on the phone that he needed to talk face-to-face.

I enjoyed seeing him turn up at our regular meeting place. I know he likes being able to turn on that debonair look. If he wants to, he can drive home from playing darts at his local, get changed, and then walk into a West London restaurant looking like he belongs there, pull an heiress if he feels like it — not that he's done that for a few years now. Sitting at the bar, I saw the smirk on his face as he came in. Maybe he was thinking about Ray, his partner: how out of place he'd look here. They're a competitive pair, and Will likes having something over him. Ray could bleed sex from a paper cut, but he'll always be a bit of rough.

I stood up and waved; Will came over, we smiled and hugged. He asked after my family, and if I'd heard from Ash lately. Then he ordered our standard pair of Martinis, but he didn't want to stay at the bar. I led him to a quieter spot. Neither of us said much at first, I think because he was worn out, and I was busy watching him. There was a slight awkwardness in his upper body when he moved, but he'd told me over the phone that he'd had an argument with a bullet recently, so that didn't surprise me. There were dark shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept properly in a while. CI5 takes its toll on a man, that's for certain. My brother's thirty-five, still young, you might think, but in that job, and after all he's been through? I for one would like to see him lead an easier life, but he never listens.

'They do a good Tequila Sunrise here, incidentally,' I said.

'Then that's your round,' said Will. 'Cheers.' We clinked glasses and drank again. I ordered from a passing waitress, and we exchanged a look of mutual appreciation at her sleek dark hair and tall, curvaceous, uniformed figure, as she glided away from us. As we waited for our second drinks, I continued to watch my brother.

'So how are things with you, Will?' I asked, when I was halfway through my tequila and tired of waiting for him to speak. 'Are you alright?'

He shrugged. 'So-so. Obviously I can't talk too much about work.'

‘Shoulder holding up okay?’

‘Oh yeah. I saw the doctor today. He said I could return to active duty anytime from now. It’s a bit stiff, but movement will make that better, not worse.’

'Oh, good,' I said warmly. ‘How are things at home?’

'Home's the closest to a pub I've ever lived, so I can't complain.' His eyes sparkled briefly, then he sighed. 'Ah, I s'pose I'm a bit uneasy.'

'About Ray?' I guessed. He nodded, and explained: 'We haven't seen other people in years, and this week he's seen the same woman twice in two days — and he's seeing her again tonight.' A rueful smile crossed his features, and he threw up his hands. 'Stupid thing is, I talked him into it! I felt like we were turning into an old married couple, and I wanted to seem "cool" and "liberated". I never thought he'd actually _do_ it.' He dropped his head onto the table. 'Fuck, Jamie. Your brother's an idiot.'

'Will,' I admonished him. 'It'll just be an aberration. It's not serious.' I squeezed his arm. 'Look here — before you introduced Ray to me, I had all the standard prejudice. I thought if you were bi it meant you fooled around, kept your options open. I mean, I had my own fantasies about it, you know that. Then when I saw the two of you, I realised, that's not always the way it is.' I tapped him on the head. 'Look at me. He _loves_ you. He loved you when he had regular girlfriends and you were bonking your way around London, and he loves you now.'

He raised his head, and smiled weakly. 'I know. But there's more to this. I don't pretend to be delighted about the situation, but I'm not worrying that he'll marry the girl tomorrow, or anything. I'm worrying because he's keeping something from me. It's hard enough with us being split up at work. We're nothing without trust, Jamie; we're partners. You've been married five years — you must know what I'm talking about.'

'I can't compare my marriage to your relationship. I've never worked with Bella. We've never risked our lives like you two have. And we've never negotiated terms like you two have. When we got together we both expected monogamy.' 

I fingered my wedding ring as I spoke, thought of the day I'd stood in the little Spanish church, with Ash whispering jokes in my ear to steady my nerves as I waited for my bride to walk down between the pews. The moment I'd pledged myself to Bella in her native language — but Will barked a laugh, brought me out of my memory.

'Ray and I never negotiated anything! It just, sort of, _happened_ this way _._ And that's a _good_ thing. Christ, can you see the pair of us making vows of everlasting love and faithfulness? It's not us. We are how we choose to be. Technically we're both free to do as we like. _Ray's_ free to do as he likes. It's not that I'm jealous. I'm not!' he insisted, when I looked disbelievingly at him. 'I just want to be kept informed. If he's not serious about her he's serious about _something.'_  

‘Have you tried asking him straight out?’

Will sighed again. ‘No.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s the same problem every time with you two. You talk about trust and partnerships, but you don't communicate! It’s like Hal said: if you want all sex and no talk, don’t fall in love.’

‘When did he say that? I don't remember him saying that.'

'Last time we visited. This time last year, wasn't it? He, Bella and I were on deck, talking. You and Jon and Ray went swimming, but Hal was too drunk.'

'Well, he had no right to say that, even if he was pissed. He's got it on tap!'

'And you haven't?'

Will's mouth tightened, and I thought it might have been because I'd made the assumption that most straight men probably make about gay ones: they get more of it than us. But then he said: 'Not like them,' and I knew why he'd tensed.

'Ah, Will —' I felt like throwing up my own hands. Not that he'd ever admit it, but my brother had never got over this, the notion that his friends had some perfect relationship to which his own couldn't compare. Admittedly, having met Jon and Hal I could see where Will was coming from. Those two and their obviously consuming passion for each other — _I_ almost envied them myself, and I'm very happily married. But I'd also seen Will with his partner, and I hated the idea that he allowed some strange inferiority complex to make him feel insecure in his relationship with Ray, which has no less strength for being understated. How many more of Will's relationships had his oldest friends inadvertently ruined?

'You can't make comparisons like that,' I protested. 'I mean, Hal — he's not quite right, is he?' I tapped my temple, but Will looked scornful.

'Hal's fine. He obviously just doesn't know what he's got.'

'Speaks the voice of bias,' I said, smiling. I knew he'd defend Jon Draper to the grave and beyond.

'Alright, maybe Hal isn't quite fine.' Will dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Would you be? I never told you his father forced him into conversion therapy when he was sixteen, did I? Jon told me he went through years of impotence, they went through years of long separations, and so when the opportunity's there, Hal doesn't think of much else. To his credit he's always been faithful; so Jonny insists, and Christ, I hope he's right — but anyway, if Hal _is_ some kind of nymphomaniac, or whatever you think he is, it isn't Jon's fault,' Will concluded. 'It's Hal's father's.'

'Oh, yeah. Hal told us all about all this, you know. He's quite loquacious when you get enough margaritas in him, isn't he?' 

I didn't add how uncomfortable Bella and I had felt. My wife is devout, and to hear the way Hal, so gentle and reserved when sober, talked about Catholics, about priests, about his time in therapy — and, God, how much he _swore_ when he was drunk! — maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I found a lot of what he said inappropriate in front of a woman. Not that I expect Hal's had much experience talking to one.

I looked across the table at my brother and said: 'They're lovely guys, Will. I think a lot of both of them, but I do think Bella's right. Hal is a man scarred by his therapy and confused by his homosexuality and his Catholic guilt, which have never reconciled. He's clinging to the only solid anchoring influence he's ever had in his life, and that anchor happens to have been obsessed with him since they were kids. Do you call that a functional love relationship?'

To my dismay, Will laughed.

'You and Bella take one psychology module at university and you think that means you know my best friends better than I do? Come off it, Jamie. I know you're trying to make me feel better. But Ray and I will never be in sync — personally, I mean — the way Hal and Jonny are.' He raised his hand when I opened my mouth, and grinned. 'I didn't say I'd have it any other way. I'd die of boredom if I had their life. Ray and I could retire onto a canal boat in the Cotswolds and fuck each other's brains out five times a day, but it wouldn't satisfy either of us. Sex, brother dear, is not everything. And unlike our mutual friends, we need our time alone.'

'Well, if that's the case, and if you're really not jealous, why does Ray taking time out bother you so much?'

'Like I said.' Will arched an eyebrow and folded his arms. 'He's keeping something from me.'

'And like _I_ said. Ask him.'

Will pouted, and glared at me. He clearly knew I was right. I doubted the conversation would have been much comfort — we'd come a long route, via one of his weak spots — but it had served its purpose.

'Okay,' he said at length. 'We've got a party to go to tomorrow night; I'm not risking ruining that by creating a bad atmosphere, but when it's over, I'll ask him. And hope he gives me a straight answer.'

'And that the answer isn't "I'm straight after all and I'm getting married",' I teased.

'That's not the issue here,' he snapped. 'Screwing some blonde a few times isn't going to change how he feels about me.'

'As long as you know that,' I said gently.

'Yeah, I do know it, now I've talked it out.' He relaxed a little. 'You should be the next CI5 psychiatrist. Therapy through belligerence. Another drink?'

'I've got all night,' I said.

'Good,' said Will. 'So have I, since my worse half is off exploring foreign demesnes.' He waved the waiter over, ordered for himself, and prompted me to do the same. 'And some olives, please. Thank you.' I pretended not to notice him checking out the waiter's backside as the latter walked back the way he'd come. Despite my youthful crush on Ash, which had probably had as much to do with the culture at our school as anything else, I'd never looked at men that way in passing. Not the way I looked at women — the way my brother looked at _both_ sexes. 

'Now, tell me,' he said, leaning forward with a smile. 'Is Tiffany looking forward to her first day at school?'


	6. Chapter 6

**  
Day 5.** **  
**

**Saturday, May 29.**  

==================

**_English Channel, off Dover. 10:08 BST._ **

==================

It was the kind of mist-and-drizzle day that permeated everything and everyone with damp and cold. Hal stood on deck nonetheless, waiting to see England. 

A strange feeling came over him when the cliffs of Dover came into sight. Like swallowing pins and needles. And oh, cruel irony, but the bloke standing beside him had his Walkman on too loud, and the tinny sound of Cream’s _The White Room_ reached Hal’s ears.

He had never been able to stand that song. His therapy had taken place in a white-painted room. 

He clutched at his stomach, exclaimed ‘oh my fucking God,’ and threw up over the side of the boat. Probably karma, for quoting that letter at Jon. Not that he was afraid anything like _that_ would happen to him now, but there’d still be a swift shot to the head to look forward to, if he fucked this up. That was enough to bring back bad memories. That and the fact that Jack Collier, and seemingly his whole family, knew every detail of his and Jon's past.

It wasn't just _being_ afraid. Hal detested the feeling, resented it. He remembered Bodie throwing casually into one conversation that he was constantly scared, because of the jobs he'd done and the enemies it had made him. Hal couldn't just accept it like he did, and like Jon did. If something made you feel sustained fear, it was violating your human rights.

He ducked back inside, found a seat on his own, reached into his inside pocket for the battered old leather-bound notebook into which he had tucked the Polaroid. Jon had given him the emotion he’d promised, and a smile to match. Hal studied the photograph, took a few deep breaths, then flicked through the book, looking at the gradually maturing handwriting, small amounts of which were his, but most of which was Jon’s. Hal had given him the book as a present when they were boys. Jon had kept the journal faithfully for twenty years, making it last by reserving its pages for big events and special moments, and keeping his writing small. When he had finally finished it, he had given it to Hal. Many entries were addressed to him. Like the one he'd written in Russia, shortly after he had found out Hal was alive after all, when he'd been recovering from frostbite and he'd just amputated one of his own toes — Hal knew that one by heart:

_'Job's done, Hal. One headshot from a hundred and fifty yards, not bad for someone half out of his brains on vodka. Had to do something for the pain. The day after tomorrow I'm meeting with a man who Dmitri says can get me home. I have to let this book go for a while. You remember our old friend, Bodie — he'll get it to you if I don't make it back. I've actually some hope of you reading this now, so the pain in my foot is nothing. I'll close my eyes and dream about seeing you again — “thou, that fillest all the room of all my love.” Good night, dearest.’_

Hal bit his lip and swallowed hard, willing himself not to turn to that page. He paused instead over what Jon had written the day after his fifteenth birthday, a far happier time for them both. 

 ' _… but even then, everything would have been perfect, because_ _he_ _was there and he loves me and what’s a little rain compared_ ~~ _to_~~ _with that? I couldn’t care less if the sun never shines again. My Hal_ _loves_ _me. He’s just handed me everything I’ve ever wanted, because I want nothing else but him. I need, virtually, nothing else. I need Hal, and air, and warmth, and shelter. In that order. I belong to him utterly, and he is entirely mine. Every atom of me loves every atom of him and we shall always be together now, I know it. I_ _know_ _it. I’ll never let him go…’_

‘Sweet boy,’ Hal murmured. 

'Who is?'

Jack Collier was standing in front of him. Hal narrowed his eyes.

'The man whose brains I'm trying to stop you splattering over the walls.'

Jack sat down next to him. Hal closed the book and put it back in his pocket.

'Look, I told you, didn't I?' Jack said. 'I don't care who does the job as long as it gets done. Neither will me uncle. You might even be better suited for it. You know the house, you know the man. But if it goes wrong, that's it, you and Draper are both dead. Because it'll be you or me, d'you understand?'

Hal nodded. Jack had made it clear enough when Hal, hedging his bets and knowing he couldn't keep up the lie, had told him who he really was. Jack worked for a man who wanted Jon dead, and Jack had been sent to do the deed — only he had got out of his head, as he'd put it, on the way to Geneva, lost the photograph he'd been given of Jon and his partner, and forgotten which was which. As it turned out, Hal had been extremely lucky that Jack and his family wanted Jon for something else first. Hal didn't have the whole story yet, but he knew the substance of it. 

Revenge on Edward Nelson Haley. 

Surely that, even if it weren't in exchange for not being shot, would be an offer Jon couldn't possibly refuse. Haley had ruined his life. He'd do the job, and be paid with new identities for himself and his partner. Jack’s uncle Martin had both the cash and the contacts for that. But if he failed, Jack's boss would be out not only for Jon's blood but for Jack's as well. It was a delicate business: a huge, though calculated, risk. But worth it to the Colliers.

 _'They should've come to me anyway,'_ Hal had told Jack. _'I've got more reason for revenge than anyone.'_ He thought that Jack had seemed more relieved than anything else. His blunder could have cost him everything. _Why_ he'd blundered became clear enough to Hal on the journey; Jack had barely let him out of his sight for five minutes, and he'd had plenty of time to observe the younger man. He had seen Jack drink, the pills he took with his whiskey, and the presence of certain apparatus in his hand luggage.

Hal had owned such things himself, once. He had only kept his job because the navy had wanted to protect his father's precious good name. He and Jack had more in common than hatred of Edward Haley.

 _'Does your boss know you're a junkie?'_ he'd asked.

 _'What do you think?'_ Jack had snapped. ' _Oh, and by the way, if you say a word to my family or anyone else, I'll gut you and your precious boyfriend and leave you to die in a big pool of each other's mingled blood. That'll be nice and romantic, won't it?'_

The threat was eerily similar to a suicide pact Jon had once drunkenly tried to make with Hal. How had he come to know men like this? But at least he knew how to get through to them. Reason and empathy. They had felt alone often enough to hate it. He had pulled up his left sleeve and shown Jack the scars, almost completely faded now, but visible if you were looking for them.

_'Look, that was me in the mid-seventies, alright? I know what it's like. However good you might have been in the past, Collier, you're not fit for a job like this. I mean, how did you keep it together long enough to convince your boss to give you the contract in the first place?'_

_'You ever been in prison, Hal?'_ When Hal had shaken his head, Jack had said: _'Then you'll never know_.'

 _'I know enough about needing to get out of a place,'_ Hal had told him. _'We both know who put me there.'_

 _'Yeah, well. Your old man put mine inside, and he died there. No way I was letting the same thing happen to me.'_  

Hal still didn't know what his father had done, or what he had known, to put a man in prison. Jack said his cousin George would explain, when they got to England. They sat together in silence now, bags at their feet, waiting for the boat to dock. Hal's eyes strayed to the newspaper on the little round table beside his seat. He picked it up and scanned the page. There was the sort of generic picture that he'd seen a thousand times, showing British troops arriving in the Falklands, and a somewhat ambiguous report of recent action. Hal noticed part of the article in particular: a name, _Lt. Luke Ashford,_ and the word _missing._

'Poor kid,' muttered Hal. When Jack raised his eyebrows in a question, Hal pointed out the name. 'I was at school with his father. And his two uncles.'

'Yeah, I know,' said Jack.

Hal looked at him, frowning. _'How_ do you know?'

Jack looked uncomfortable. Too hastily, too defensively, he replied: 'My boss is thorough. He did his homework.' He swallowed, then seemed to recover himself, and gestured towards the paper. 'You know, I bet there were loads of ordinary blokes killed or missing from that battle. Typical they only report on the toff, innit? Not that you'd care.'

Hal gritted his teeth. He didn't need this. He turned in his seat and scowled at Jack.

'I didn't choose my parents, you little shit. Or my upbringing. If you're going to turn all aggressive-working-class on me, you can stick it up your arse.' 

He stood up. Jack smirked, arched an eyebrow, and answered: 'You're the expert.'

Hal smirked back. 'You don't know what you're missing.'

'You want to help me find out, you'll be disappointed.' 

Hal put on his best sneer, and said: 'You couldn't pay me enough.'

He shouldered his bag and walked into the lounge, brooding over what Jack had said. It was obvious that he'd said more than he'd intended, but why would he know about Ashford? The only things connecting him or Jon to that family were indirect, tenuous at best. They'd both had minor crushes on Roddy, who was a few years older, but they'd never admitted that to anyone except each other. The only other connection, surely, was that they knew James Bodie, Luke's best friend. Still, perhaps Jack's boss, whoever he was, had researched everyone who had been at school with Jon. And everyone even obliquely connected with his past: i.e. the Ashfords, and the Bodie brothers.

 _I hope this never involves poor Jamie,_ thought Hal. _He and his wife are nice people. They shouldn't ever get mixed up with the likes of us._

 

 =================

**_Epsom. Maddox residence. 19:30 BST._ **

==================

Doyle passed the bottle of wine to Bodie, so he had a hand free to press the doorbell. Maddox’s voice yelled: ‘Coming!’ and a few seconds later, he threw open the door.

‘Hello, you two! Come in!’

He stepped back so they could enter, and shut the door behind them.

‘Those are pretty,’ he said, gesturing to the bunch of flowers in Doyle’s hand. ‘She’ll love them. Come through, we’re all in the garden. Did you hear Cowley’s pulled surveillance off the younger Colliers, Ray? Looks like they’re as clean as we thought. He’s put their dad under obbo now. That informant, Perkins, called in, said he saw Martin having a chat with Tony Rutherford. Somewhere a bit less public than his sons’ garage. _And,_ Perkins heard him say _specifically_ that George and Joe knew nothing and he didn’t want them involved.’

Doyle whistled. ‘Bloody hell. So was Matlock’s name mentioned?’

‘I dunno. I heard it from Wesley this afternoon, and _he_ overheard Cowley on the phone, telling McCabe to pack the obbo in. But it sounds to me like the old man’s pretty convinced it _is_ to do with Matlock. I was only home ten minutes when he called saying he wanted me in his office at eight tomorrow morning. He didn’t say why. I take it he called you too.’

‘Yeah. I assumed it’d be something like this. So much for the long weekend, eh?’

Doyle sounded fairly good-natured talking to Maddox, but Bodie had been there when he took the call, witnessed the swearing and kicking of the nearest bit of skirting board that had followed it, and joined in with alacrity. His ideas for what Ray Doyle could do that Sunday hadn’t involved fighting crime. Saturday afternoon had already been spoilt because Rachel Donovan had called. Bodie was still fuming. _He promised to make it up to me tomorrow, and all._  

As they moved towards the back of the house, Bodie’s ears caught a buzz of chatter. The kitchen door opened and a heavily pregnant Sara Tucker came out, carrying a platter of seafood. Her husband followed her with a plate of cheese and pineapple. They both said hello to Bodie and Doyle. Maddox pinched a prawn from the platter as he followed Sara into the dining room; Tucker pinched Maddox’s bottom while his wife wasn’t looking. Maddox stepped deliberately on Tucker’s foot — _aha, guilty conscience,_ thought Bodie — Tucker laughed. Sara turned and rolled her eyes at them.

‘Don’t you dare drop that plate, Tom. Took me ages, that did.’

‘I won’t!’ Tucker protested. She smiled and walked out through the French windows. There was a fair-sized crowd gathered in the Maddoxes’ garden, which was decorated with paper lanterns and balloons. Music played at a non-intrusive volume. A group of boys were kicking a football around in one corner, while smaller children, two girls and one boy, were chasing each other and giggling, weaving in and out of the little pockets of chattering adults. There were trestle tables, covered in sheets of crepe paper, on which a variety of food had been served. The Tuckers added their plates to the buffet. Another table had a pile of presents on it. Eileen Maddox, a slim, dark-haired woman as tall as her husband, whose disproportionately long jaw nearly spoilt an otherwise pretty face, stood behind it, unwrapping gifts.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that, Sara!’ she called. ‘Let me get the next one!’

Sara placed one hand on her swollen belly. ‘It’s fine! We’ve finished now. Anyway, you’re the birthday girl, you’re not _allowed_ to do anything.’

‘Sit down at least,’ said Eileen. Tucker pulled up a chair for his wife and helped her sit down. 

‘Happy birthday, Eileen,’ said Doyle. He handed her the flowers and kissed her on the cheek. Bodie was next with the wine.

‘Thanks, lads,’ she said. ‘It’s good to see you, it’s been ages!’

‘Well, work, you know,’ said Bodie.

‘Oh, don’t I. And Cal’s not even on A-squad. Still, he found time to pull this together!’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘Yeah.’ She grinned.

‘Sorry we couldn’t be here earlier. Ray had an afternoon thing.’ He gave Doyle a significant glance. ‘And he was my lift.’

‘Never mind. You haven’t missed all that much. I only got in half an hour ago. Haven’t even opened all my presents yet!’ She picked up a flat parcel wrapped in silver paper, obviously a single. ‘Ah, this is from Rex.’ She tore off the paper; it was _House of Fun_ by Madness. ‘Hey, Rex! Thank you!’ She waved the record in the air.

‘Aha, you’ve opened it!’ Tucker bounded over and snatched it, making a beeline for the portable record player that sat on a nearby chair. After turning off the boom box that was on the table next to it, he put the record on, turned up the volume, and the music blared out. He grabbed Eileen’s hand and dragged her out into the middle of the lawn to dance.

‘Did you have to say that?’ Doyle muttered to Bodie.

‘Why not? It’s true.’

‘It’s the _way_ you said it,’ Doyle snapped.

‘Speaks the voice of guilt.’

‘Speaks the voice of jealousy! Which I’d rather you didn’t advertise.’

‘I did no such thing.’ Bodie gave the slight toss of his head that he knew annoyed Doyle. ‘As long as you’re honest with me it’s fine. I told you. But you weren’t honest with me. You just disappeared.’

‘It was short notice. You were in the shower when she phoned; I told you I was going out for a bit, what’s wrong with that?’

‘You were out for five hours.’

‘We were talking.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. In between how many fucks?’

‘Screw you,’ said Doyle, and stalked off towards two men Bodie vaguely recognised as friends of Doyle’s from his days at the Met.

‘I wish,’ muttered Bodie. He sighed, knowing that was an irrational thought; Doyle had done just that only about nine hours ago. Bodie had been looking forward to his turn in the afternoon. He gritted his teeth. He’d talked Doyle into the affair with that Donovan woman — no good regretting it now. He was still fairly sure it would be short-lived. He just hadn’t banked on it feeling this rotten while it was happening.

Bodie picked up a can of lager and looked over at Tucker, dancing with Eileen. Maddox was trying to get Sara to dance, but she wouldn’t. _Poor woman,_ thought Bodie. _It’s bad enough when you put on a few pounds from too many chip butties. Imagine having to carry a whole human being!_

‘Come on, Cal!’ Tucker shouted, holding out his hand and beckoning. Maddox fetched Sara a glass of lemonade before he ran over to join them. _There it is again, the guilt,_ Bodie thought. _He doesn’t seem to feel it with his own wife though, why?_ Eileen laughed as Tucker took her husband’s hand, pulled him close, swung him awkwardly around, and then started dancing with both of them. The two men formed an arch with their hands, pulled Eileen through it; Maddox twirled Tucker around and gave him a one-armed hug while with his free hand he cupped Eileen’s cheek and kissed her on the mouth. Husband and wife exchanged a smile, and then as Eileen grabbed Tucker’s hand, they all spun around together. The children giggled at them. From her chair, Sara cheered and raised her glass of lemonade.

Bodie and Doyle had slow-danced last New Year’s Eve with some cheesy old song playing on the radio, and fireworks going off in the distance. It had been the first and only time. They had broken apart, laughing, after a minute or two, and moved into the bedroom for something more fun.  Tonight was the first time Bodie felt the desire to repeat it. 

He remembered Jon and Hal trying to teach him the tango once. He’d seen them do it on the boat, switching steps so that each of them led the other for exactly half the dance. They had all the time in the world to practise things like that. Bodie sighed again as he finished his lager. Despite what Jamie obviously thought, _that_ was what Bodie envied them now; they could keep the rest. It’d be nice, so nice, to have real _time._

 _Maybe Jon could use his contacts to get me a couple of well-paid jobs,_ Bodie thought. He'd done all sorts as a merc, including the sort of surveillance and sniper work in which Jon had specialised. He felt fairly sure he still had it in him. It was better than asking his family for money. Times like these, if they weren't exactly desperate, did seem, to Bodie just then, to call for out-of-the-ordinary measures. _I’ve got a little bit saved already, and I know Ray has. If only we could retire -— I could take him somewhere and make him forget all about_ her _. He’s a fair dancer when he tries. We could…_

Connie Cardew, the latest in Cowley’s long line of secretaries, appeared at Bodie’s shoulder, and pulled him onto the makeshift dance floor. Bodie glanced over at Doyle, but he was deep in conversation with his friends. _Probably not looking on purpose,_ Bodie thought, but he put on a good show anyway. He was an alright dancer himself when he felt like it.

 

==============

The party died down early, because many of the guests were parents. By eleven, Doyle was still reminiscing about the old days, but he’d switched to a couple of the lads from B-squad who’d come up together from vice. Both had worked with Benny when he was in Drugs, and from what Bodie could hear, swapping stories about him was the substance of the conversation. Eileen, Sara, Connie, and some woman called Kim whose husband was talking to Doyle, were discussing which dogs were best around children. Maddox and Tucker had been dispatched to washing-up duty, and were going back and forth to the kitchen. Bodie had been talking to Murphy, whose girlfriend was in Eileen’s book club. But they left early to go to another party, and Bodie didn’t fancy joining either of the remaining groups. He needed the loo, anyway.

When he reached the door of the downstairs cloakroom, he found Eileen behind him.

‘Oh — no problem, Bodie, I’ll just go upstairs,’ she said cheerily, but she stumbled on the first step.

‘Had a few too many?’ Bodie asked with a grin. She looked around sheepishly at him. ‘Why not? You don’t turn thirty every day. Here, you stay on one level for a while. I’ll go upstairs.’

‘Cheers, Bodie, second door on the left,’ she mumbled. Bodie went upstairs, used the bathroom, and went back down again — after the obligatory glance into the main bedroom, of course. It was clean, tidy, and neutrally decorated. Eileen was obviously a good housekeeper, and apart from a few cushions on the bed, she didn’t force over-feminine tastes on her husband.

Bodie was on his way to the kitchen when he spotted Eileen standing at the door, which was slightly ajar. She was laughing silently. He looked questioningly at her; she put her finger to her lips and beckoned. He peeked through the gap between the door and the doorframe, and saw Tucker standing at the sink, Maddox behind him, arms wrapped around his waist.

‘Yeah, it’s been great,’ he said in a low voice.

 'I think Eileen’s had a good time,’ Tucker replied.

‘Oh, I think so. She looks happy. I hope so. She deserves it. I’ve had so much work on and she hasn’t complained once.’

‘I know,’ said Tucker, through a sigh. ‘Wish I was that lucky.’

‘Sad thing is, I miss her when I’m with you and I miss you when I’m with her.’

‘No pleasing some people.’ Tucker laughed.

‘Tonight’s been so good. I love it when we’re all together.’

‘Me too.’

‘Eileen looks so happy.’ Maddox was obviously drunk; he was repeating himself. ‘Me too, ‘m so happy tonight. I do, so, love her.’ he slurred. ‘My girl.’ He buried his face momentarily in Tucker’s shoulder, then looked up again and kissed his cheek. ‘And you, Rex, I love _you_. I _do,_ you know.’ 

Tucker rested his head against Maddox’s neck, and murmured something Bodie didn’t catch.

Eileen shut the door silently and pulled Bodie by the hand, into the living room. She switched on the light and sat down on the sofa. Bodie sat on a chair opposite, looking at her, watching for her to break down — but she was still grinning.

‘Did you see that?’ she whispered. ‘Weren’t they _sweet?’_ She giggled out loud and clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘You know, you’re a lot less handsome with that codfish look on your face.’

Bodie shut his mouth. Frowning, he whispered back: ‘Are you alright?’

‘Oh, yeah — Cal told me a while back. To be honest it’s kind of a turn-on.’ She grinned. ‘Okay, I didn’t think that at first. I took a couple of days to adjust. But I know it isn’t any threat. You heard him. He loves us equally. He won’t leave me. That’s what matters.’ She paused as if to collect her thoughts. A line appeared between her eyes, disappearing as she brightened. ‘Anyway, _Rex_ loves me. I love Rex. I told Cal, if it weren’t for Sara he could move in tomorrow. I mean, not just because Cal’s bisexual, it’s not that, but he’s in love with us both, he _needs_ us both, or he won’t be completely happy. I hope, I _hope,_ though I don’t know, but I _hope,_ that I’d feel the same if it were a woman. Or if I had another man, maybe Cal — but anyway, I can’t imagine…’ She trailed off, waving her hand to dismiss the notion.

Bodie did a quick mental sort through the drunken babble, and chose not to comment on what Eileen considered acceptable living arrangements. He concentrated upon practicalities. ‘I take it Sara doesn’t…’

‘Oh God no.’ Eileen shook her head vigorously. ‘No. And she absolutely _mustn’t_ find out. She’s the jealous type and she’s homophobic to boot. Not that she’s not a nice person, Bodie, but she was brought up very strictly. _You_ know. And…’ she leaned forward and put her hand on Bodie’s shoulder ‘… she’d have a bigger problem anyway, because Rex isn’t even bi. He thought he just had the odd leaning but then he met Cal and fell in love with him and realised he was full-on gay. Cal told me. Poor Rex.’

‘I’m not sure you should be telling me all this, Eileen,’ Bodie said.

‘Oh. It’s okay.’ Eileen flapped her hands in front of her in an exaggerated negating motion reminiscent of 1950s jive dancing. ‘I know you knew about them already; I asked if anyone at work knew, and he said you and Ray — it was Ray who told you, wasn’t it? I guess partners can’t really have secrets from each other and you’re trustworthy, anyway, I know you are.’ Her speech was now as slurred as her husband’s had been.

‘I must have one of those faces,’ muttered Bodie. Eileen gave no sign of having heard. She crossed her legs, rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and gazed at the wall that separated the living room and the kitchen.

‘I’d never _seen_ them together before,’ she said. ‘They don’t act like it in front of me… anyway, Sara’s usually there… gosh, they do look adorable together, don’t they? Boys in love. So cute.’ She glanced back at Bodie and blinked. ‘Sorry. It probably doesn’t look cute to you! But you’re awfully good about it. You _and_ Ray.’

Bodie bit back the urge to laugh. Maddox teased him and Doyle so much about their relationship, he’d often wondered whether he or Tucker had guessed the truth. But they obviously had no idea. If Maddox told his wife everything — and it certainly seemed like he did — then he would surely have mentioned any suspicions about fellow agents. Eileen was too drunk, now, not to let it slip if she knew. 

She had lapsed into a silence Bodie was quite happy to let continue. He looked at her and felt marginally safer. And he hadn’t even realised he was worried. Not on that score, anyway.

They both jumped, and exchanged a confidential smile, when the telephone rang beside the sofa. Eileen picked it up and said a rather giggly: ‘Hello?’ She frowned, nodded, made a noise of agreement, and then gestured towards Bodie with the earpiece.

‘It’s for you.’

 

 ===============

**_Lake Geneva, off Vevey. 23:47 CEST._ **

=================

The lake shimmered with lights from a hundred different man-made sources, and up above, the moon and the stars contributed their own glittering reflections. It was a clear night, and Jack wondered who you had to stab in the back to be able to live here, surrounded by all this. He smiled, remembering that his target was a sniper. According to the boss, Draper was squeamish about close kills. He did them only when he absolutely had to. His first kill had involved cutting, a nasty business by the sound of it, and since then he’d left the cutting to others. The boss, explaining this, had kicked at a nearby table, overturning it. He had called Draper a coward. Jack, a fellow killer, knew differently now he had been told Draper’s history, but still, he felt a little scorn for the man he was about to kill.

There was, perhaps, a twinge of regret for Hal’s sake. Reeling from his mistake, Jack had given Hal his word that no harm would come to Draper unless Hal himself failed in his task. That Hal had believed him wasn’t surprising: Jack had fully intended to keep his oath when he had pledged it, and the two of them had formed a strange sort of bond during the journey to London. 

Since then, however, an uneasiness had crept upon him. What if Hal failed? The other boss — his uncle’s boss — could get wind of the plan. The family would have to lie low, stay clear of their contacts, including the man who could make you a passport for any country in the world. Jack’s escape, his new identity, would no longer be guaranteed. And if the lying-low didn’t work, if that other boss found out anyway, Jack’s whole family, his uncle and aunt, his cousins, would all suffer somehow. 

Jack could see it all. 

And the only way he would be safe? If the one thing that _his_ boss wanted was done. Jonathan Draper had to die. The rest of the mess could be put down to the other Colliers: blundering, short-sighted, small-time crooks that they all were. They had the same reason as Jack for wanting revenge on Edward Haley. And the man they’d apparently hired to do it? A logical choice. Anyone who knew the Haleys’ history would agree.

With a watertight bag over his shoulder, Jack slipped into the water, dressed in a wetsuit. He barely made a splash. He swam alongside the jetty, towards the boat Draper and the younger Haley called home. He made his way towards the stern, where a light was on in the cabin.

 _What sort of a life must that be?_ Jack tried, as he swam, to imagine. He had beaten queers on the streets of the East End before he went inside. In prison he had been on both sides of rape. And he’d occupied that strange realm between rape and consent when both parties were at best willing, at worst resigned. Imagine doing that out of love…?! Jack couldn’t. Especially not on the outside, where women were plentiful. There must be something wrong with them.

Jack pulled himself up to look through the right window. The lights in the bedroom were on, and he heard the faint sound of music playing. The blinds were down, so he couldn't see the man inside, but after a couple of minutes he heard the shower come on. Draper wouldn't know what hit him. If Jack ever saw Hal again, he would be able to comfort him with that, at least.

Jack dived down, placed the bomb on the underside of the hull. He set the timer for two minutes, and swam for his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's diary quotes Tennyson's _In Memoriam:_
> 
>  
> 
> _But thou, that fillest all the room_  
>  Of all my love, art reason why  
> I seem to cast a careless eye  
> On souls, the lesser lords of doom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day 6.** **  
**

**Sunday, May 30.**  

==================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 00:14 BST._ **

==================

‘Good party, I hope?’ Cowley asked.

‘Um, yes, sir,’ said Bodie. He couldn’t hide his surprise at the question.

‘I’m glad. Mrs Maddox is a pleasant woman.’

 _You mean she doesn’t interfere in her husband’s passion for his job,_ Bodie thought. 

‘Now,’ Cowley went on, waving the pair of them into chairs in front of his desk. ‘I’ve a job for you two, and it means you’re off the Matlock case for the moment, Doyle.’

‘Whatever you say, sir,’ said Doyle, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat. Bodie suspected he’d be seething on the inside. Doyle did not like to leave a job unfinished, especially not one in which he had that much invested. 

‘Bodie — I take it you were cleared for action on Friday?’

‘Like a man of war, sir.’

‘Very funny,’ said Cowley. ‘Now, listen, you two. There is a man — a very well-connected man — who needs our protection.’

‘Oh, no, sir!’ Doyle protested, at the same time as Bodie said: _‘Babysitting?’_ rather more loudly than he’d intended.

‘Och, stop it, the pair of you, you sound like a pair of two-year-olds.’

‘But sir, that case is vital, I’ve been after Matlock for years, I’ve got the _experience_ , how can you be pulling me off for…’

Cowley cut Doyle off. ‘You’re not a one-man security organisation, Doyle. We’ve all been after Matlock and it’s in _all_ of our interests to get him. And we will. But you are needed elsewhere.’

‘But…’

Cowley interrupted again. ‘Why you? Be quiet, and I’ll tell you.’

Bodie snorted, and Doyle shot him a glare that was reminiscent of the old days. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, making him oversensitive, but Bodie felt stung by the look. _Four years of happiness, and now… oh, Christ, Bodie, don’t_ you _start turning sentimental,_ he told himself.

‘I have had a visit tonight from a retired surgeon named Edward Nelson Haley. Now I take it you’ve…’

‘Oh no.’ Bodie got to his feet. ‘Not me. Not him. I’m not protecting him. He can rot in hell for all I care.’ He walked towards the door.

‘Bodie!’

Bodie couldn’t help it. There was something in Cowley’s tone that made him feel like he’d been hypnotised into obeying. Perhaps he’d never shaken off the soldier’s instinct to follow orders, or perhaps it was just Cowley himself. But he turned around.

‘Sir,’ he said, between his teeth.

‘It _will_ be you, it _has_ to be you, because you already know the people involved.’

‘We know his son,’ Bodie admitted, as he sat down again. ‘And his son’s partner, of course. But…’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Cowley snapped. ‘You won’t like hearing this, because I know you were close, but it seems that our old friend Draper has decided to come out of retirement. Mr Haley is reliably informed that Draper is in the country and will attempt to kill him sometime in the next three days.’

‘By whom is he _reliably informed?’_ Bodie scoffed. He couldn’t believe Draper would be stupid enough to come back to England. _He’d never put himself in that much danger… not for that… he wouldn’t do that to Hal! Unless it’s Hal who wants him to… he hates his dad enough… but he’d never let Jon take that risk, would he?_

‘Like I said,’ Cowley retorted. ‘He is a well-connected man.’

‘But Draper doesn’t want him dead, sir. Unless Hal told him to do it.’

‘Don’t be facetious, Bodie.’

 _I wasn’t,_ Bodie thought, but he decided not to say so.

‘As I was saying, Draper will attempt to kill Edward Haley. You will prevent him from succeeding, by any means necessary. And before you start again, Bodie, I don’t want Draper hurt, or in jail, or dead, any more than you do. That is why I want you and Doyle on this case. You’re Draper’s friends, and he’ll think twice before he attacks you. I want you to catch him, talk him out of killing Haley, and find out why he’s suddenly decided to try now.’ In a softer voice, Cowley finished: ‘I know that Edward Haley did great wrong by Draper. If someone else is behind this, exploiting Draper’s feelings on the matter, I want to know about it, and with as little mess made as possible, do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, sir,’ echoed Doyle.

‘And if it turns out to be someone else entirely’ — Cowley paused significantly — ‘well. Let’s just say I want my best team on it.’ He stood up and walked across the room, to where a bottle of Scotch and two glasses stood on top of a filing cabinet. He poured out two measures and handed them to Bodie and Doyle. He brought the bottle to his desk and filled his own empty glass.

Hardly placated by the Scotch, Bodie and Doyle looked at each other. Bodie could tell by the expression on his partner’s face that they were both having the same idea.

‘You think Draper’s a red herring, sir? You think someone’s put Jack Collier onto this?' 

Cowley’s eyes flashed, belying his measured tone of voice as he replied: ‘What makes you think that, Bodie?’

‘It’s within his remit as a professional killer,’ said Bodie. ‘He couldn’t have escaped like he did without help. He’s got more recent experience than Draper. If I were going to hire a pro, sir, I’d pick Collier over Draper. These days, I mean.’

‘Yes, but there are plenty of killers who could be hired with a great deal less effort. Including Draper. And don't forget, Bodie, you and Draper are friends. You’ve seen him socially, you know his current lifestyle. For others, his reputation precedes him. And I think that for now, despite what other suspicions might be on our back-burner, we ought to proceed in line with Haley’s information.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to know his source, sir?’

Cowley paused, sipping his Scotch. His mouth tightened for a moment. Then he relented.

‘His lawyer, Michael Hardy.’

‘And _his_ source?’ asked Doyle.

‘I have not been able to ascertain that,’ said Cowley. ‘Haley leads me to understand that Hardy will be staying with him until the danger has passed, as moral support and to make amendments to his will. Part of your job will be to listen, lads, just _listen_. See what you can find out _without_ asking questions. Of course, Hardy might not have given his employer details about the shadier of his connections. But — I don’t know, I have a feeling that Haley knows more than he’s telling me.’

‘Does he know that Draper worked for you?’ asked Doyle.

‘I don’t believe so, and I’d like to keep it that way.’ 

‘Does he know _we_ know his son?’

‘He asked me about you, Bodie. Whether you were the same William Bodie who was at his son’s school. I told him the truth, of course, though I did not happen to mention that you were still in touch. He then said that he would hold me personally accountable for any publicity involving his son. So do please refrain from discussing your friend Hal with any journalists who might pop by.’ Cowley’s eyes twinkled a little. 

‘Jon’s right — Hal’s father _is_ a paranoid old twit, isn’t he?’

‘I wouldn’t have used _quite_ those words, Bodie.’

‘But the world’s different now, sir. Does Haley really think his friends will turn their backs on him if they find out he has a gay son?’

‘Och, Bodie, I know you had your moments as a younger man, _and_ you, Doyle.’ Cowley gestured towards each of them with the hand not holding his Scotch; they exchanged an amused glance. Bodie knew what Doyle was thinking: _what if we hadn’t told each other? That’d be an eye-opener!_ Cowley went on: ‘But can you honestly sit there and tell me that you’d want the sordid details of _your_ family’s private life bandied about among everyone you knew?’

‘Maybe not, sir, but Edward Haley is a bigot and nasty with it,’ said Doyle. ‘You know what he did to his son. You know he’s indirectly responsible for Draper becoming a killer in the first place. Frankly, my sympathy for him’s limited.’

‘I don’t pay you to be sympathetic, Doyle. I pay you to get results.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now, I want you both to go home and pack your bags. Get a few hours’ sleep. I want you at Haley’s house by eight o’clock. For now, considering Draper’s usual _modus operandi,_ I have Wilson watching the rooftops surrounding Haley’s house. In addition, there are two men from B-Squad outside the front door, who will leave once you arrive. 

‘Your job will ostensibly be to coordinate the operation, protect Haley at close quarters, and ensure that Wilson can do his job on a strictly need-to-know basis. All he needs to know is that there is a probable sniper. But —’ and here he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially ‘—- you will also _listen._ Particularly to anything Hardy, the solicitor, might give away. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that in a legal capacity, he represents the younger Haley as well as the elder. Therefore, he himself might be connected with Draper.’

‘Hardy,’ said Doyle. He frowned and scratched his head. ‘Sir, I’m sure I’ve come across that name before. When I was on the force.’

‘It’s a common enough name,’ said Cowley. ‘Michael Hardy has no record. But he did have a father who owned his practice before him, and _he_ , I believe, may be in our files. I’ll put Connie onto it in the morning. You think of anything, Doyle, you call me.’

‘Yes, sir.' 

He stood up. Bodie stood with him.

‘Call in when you’ve reached Haley’s house,’ said Cowley. ‘I’ll expect to hear from you no later than eight. And remember — tact, at all times. Especially you, Bodie. I’d rather Haley didn’t get the impression that you’re on the side of his killer.’

 

===============

‘I can’t believe Jon would try to kill Hal’s father,’ Bodie said to Doyle, when they were on their way back to Doyle’s flat. ‘Cowley’s right. There’s more to this.’

‘Personally I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ Doyle snapped. He took a corner at breakneck speed.

‘You don’t know him like I do,’ Bodie argued.

‘So you delight in reminding me.’

‘Ray, that’s complete bullshit and you know it.’

Doyle sighed. Bodie watched him unobtrusively for a minute or so. He was trying to take his frustration out on driving, but he was being careless, riding the clutch as he increased his speed. Bodie surprised himself by thinking: _Poor Ray._

‘There’s more to this.’ He repeated his own earlier words, more slowly this time. ‘More to the _case._ But there’s more to this thing with Rachel, isn’t there?’ When Doyle didn’t answer — except by the sudden tension around his mouth — Bodie prompted: ‘Ray?’

‘I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m trying to remember where I’ve heard the name Hardy before.’

‘Thomas?’ Bodie suggested, shrugging. When Doyle shot him a glance through narrowed eyes, he grinned. ‘Kiss me?’

Doyle looked like he was struggling not to smile, but couldn’t help it. ‘Blow me before I die, Hardy. Do your duty by your Admiral.’

Bodie snorted, and added: ‘Bend over, Hardy, I feel my strength returning.’

Doyle actually laughed that time. Bodie smiled. The silence that followed was more comfortable than the last had been.

‘Look, Bodie, I’m going to drop you at your flat,’ Doyle said, as he made the right turning. ‘I don’t mean anything by it. We just need all the rest we can get. Everyone sleeps better alone.’

‘Not everyone,’ Bodie murmured.

‘Well, I do, then. D’you mind?’

Bodie sighed. ‘No, of course not. On one condition.’

‘Oh. What’s that?’

‘Answer me about Rachel.’

Doyle, again, didn’t answer. But when he pulled up outside the block of flats that was Bodie’s current base, he turned and looked Bodie straight in the eye.

‘I’ll be brief. We don’t have time for more now. There is more to it. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll tell you everything after this case.’

Bodie nodded. The knot in his chest, the tightness that had been present since Doyle had first met Rachel, felt lighter, though it did not altogether disappear. He got out of the car, and leaned through the open window.

‘Love you,’ he said quietly. Doyle answered him with a look, despairing, sympathetic, and — something else. Bodie knew what. He didn’t need Doyle to speak.

‘Pick me up in the morning?’

Doyle nodded. Bodie nodded back. He gave Doyle a look that he hoped was reassuring. Then he turned away.

 

 ==================

**_London. Caravan of J. Collier. 08:28 BST._ **

==================

The kettle whistled, drowning out _Are Friends Electric_ on the radio. Joe's humming went momentarily off-key. He tossed tea bags into two chipped mugs and filled them with hot water. He had no idea how Hal liked his tea, so he left room for milk, and added two spoonfuls of sugar to his own.

Joe leaned against the counter and watched Hal waking up. His mouth and nose twitched, he yawned, half-sat up, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and blinked.

'Morning,' said Joe, with a grin. Hal gave him a close-lipped smile, and a nod. He passed a hand in front of his eyes.

'Want a cuppa?'

'Please,' said Hal.

'Milk? Sugar?'

'Neither, thanks.'

Joe handed him the cup as it was. Hal thanked him again, took a tentative sip, and then blew on the hot liquid.

'You ready for tonight?' Joe asked. Privately he wished Jack would hurry up, come back for his man while it was still early. The surveillance might have been off them for now — CI5 had taken Perkins' bait, all right — but he still didn't like it. If Jack were seen hanging around, it would spell trouble. If Hal were associated with Jack, no one would believe Joe and George had only given him a place to stay.

'Sorry, what?' Hal asked, obviously with half an ear on the news.

'I said...'

'Ssh!' Hal's eyes grew large and he bit his lip. Joe listened. The newsreader was talking about an explosion. A boat on Lake Geneva, off a small town in Vaud, owned by British expatriates. No names had been released, but the name of the boat, and where it was moored, were both stated. No bodies had been recovered, but witnesses had said it looked like someone was on board at the time.

Joe looked out of the window. He couldn't stand to look at Hal. His eyes... Joe wouldn't forget that expression in a hurry, even though he hardly knew the man.

_So that's where Cousin Jack disappeared to yesterday. Covering his arse, despite all his promises. That utter bastard._

Joe made himself turn back around. If Hal was still sitting there, _staring,_ like that — but he had sunk back down onto the mattress, turned towards the wall, and curled his knees into his chest. 

Joe gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes, thinking of his cousin's ill-timing. _What if he's not up to doing the job now?_ _Couldn't you have waited, Jack, you stupid...?_

He slipped out of the caravan, muttering his chosen insult aloud, and made his way up the garden, towards the house. George wouldn't like waking up before nine on a Sunday, but he'd just have to lump it. He always knew what to do. 

 

===============

**_Canterbury. Townhouse of E.N. Haley. 10:05 BST._ **

===============

'Hal would've been on board,' mumbled Bodie, through the hand in front of his mouth. 'Oh, my God, Jon's going to die.'

They were sitting opposite one another at Edward Haley's kitchen table. Doyle wished they hadn't turned the radio on. Bodie was close to tears, and Doyle felt Hal's loss himself; they didn't need this kind of distraction. Then again, if there was something that would make Draper more reckless and desperate, they needed to know about it.

 _With any luck it'll make him abandon the job and rush home,_ Doyle thought. 

'Why?' he asked. 'That's what I don't get. Why?'

Bodie shrugged.

'It can't be connected. Can it?'

Bodie rolled his eyes. 'Who knows? Jon's got more enemies than you can count. They may or may not have known he wasn't on board. It could be a warning. Someone might have decided to get at him by killing Hal...' He broke off abruptly as his voice cracked. He dropped his head to the tabletop. Doyle reached across the table and gripped his wrist.

'I'm sorry about Hal. He was a good friend.'

'Your friend too.'

'Yeah, but not the way he was yours.'

'True.' Bodie lifted his head, rubbed his eyes. 'Christ, Ray. This'll finish Jonny. It'll kill him. I mean, wouldn't you prefer to be the dead one, rather than the one left behind?'

Doyle looked down himself now, reddening at the question. After a moment’s silence, he admitted: 'Yeah.'

Bodie sighed. 'At least if the bomb tore the boat apart, Hal wouldn't have known much about it.'

'That's something,' Doyle muttered. 

There was a knock at the inner door of the kitchen, and the solicitor, Hardy, walked in. He was a slight, dark-haired man of medium height, with streaks of white at his temples. He wore a grey tweed suit, waistcoat and all, despite the warm weather. He had a stiff, impassive, professional manner, with a voice to match. His face was thin, sphinx-like in its usual expression, only occasionally betrayed by sea-green eyes that would flash with something almost undefinable, but what Doyle could only have described as the signs of a strong will fighting to exert itself impulsively against its owner’s otherwise careful, level-headed personality. He had seen such flashes in the eyes of suspects who were lowly members of some gang or other. They had been trained into submission — indeed, their position, perhaps their very lives, depended on it — but if the rebellious streak could be brought out, they made the best police informants money could buy. This was the sort of man who would serve his master faithfully for ninety-nine days, and then, on the hundredth, cut his throat. Doyle found himself wondering when Hardy’s hundredth day would come, and which of his clients would suffer.

'Ah, you've heard this morning's news?' Bodie and Doyle both nodded, and Hardy nodded back grimly. 'Yes. The old man's taking it alright. But he and his son were never very close. He blames Draper, of course; no doubt this is an enemy of his, out for some twisted revenge or other. He says he's glad he called CI5 rather than the regular police. "At least these boys shoot to kill," he says. But I trust you will attempt to avoid such an ending to your case.'

'At all costs,' Bodie snapped. Doyle gave his arm another squeeze.

'You're a friend of theirs. I know — they've talked about you,' Hardy said. Bodie nodded without looking at him.

 _So he knows they're still in touch, and he didn't tell Haley? Interesting,_ thought Doyle. _Cowley wondered about divided loyalties..._

'Yes, well,' Hardy was saying. 'You and I might have reason to talk, sometime in the near future. I'll leave you to it for now. I must get back to Mr Haley.'

'I expect he'll want to discuss his will, now that his son and heir's gone,' said Doyle.

Hardy smiled a smile that Leonardo Da Vinci might have painted, and shook his head. 'My dear fellow, he cut Owen off completely, four years ago. Now, if you'll excuse me.' He left the room.

'Sounds like you might have a legacy,' Doyle said. Bodie shrugged, sniffed, and left through the outer door: a narrow, glass affair whose panes rattled when it was opened and closed. It was part of their job to board it up today, for security's sake. Doyle watched through the window as Bodie walked down the garden path and out of sight. He decided to go to the shed and seek out the boards and tools that Haley had had laid out for the purpose. The man was nothing if not organised. 

But he had been a navy surgeon, working under fire. You needed a good head for order to do that. If you could tell a man’s life by the state of his house, Edward Haley had a highly ordered mind, uncompromising in its rigidity. When Bodie, in an attempt — all too obvious to Doyle — to cover his dislike of the man, had expressed regret at hearing of his illness, he had received a curt reply of: _‘At least it’s not dementia. I couldn’t abide that.’_ Doyle, for his part, found Haley rather formidable, and could not help respecting him, even as he despised his opinions. With no opportunity for the subject to have come up, it was easy to forget that the old man was a bigot who would kick his two protectors straight out of his house if he found out what they did in private. Likewise, according to his son, if either of them had been black, or Jewish, or even merely female — Doyle smiled at the thought of Susan and Jax, whom Cowley had recently partnered after years of solo work, turning up as reinforcements. He wondered how Haley had been voting. Surely he had to be a Tory. With his contempt for professional women, outside of the caring occupations like nurses or teachers, would he make an exception at the highest level? 

Haley was quartered in a lavish suite of rooms on the first floor of the house. Now a permanent invalid, he nevertheless preferred to move from the bedroom to an adjustable, hospital-style bed in the sitting room, during the day. The sitting room looked like a cross between a hospital room and an office. Filing cabinets, which Hardy said were from the study downstairs, lined one wall. Haley insisted on being dressed and sitting upright, reading and writing with the aid of a desk that fitted over his bed, such as Churchill had used during the war. He employed a nurse to cater to his needs, and one of her tasks was to help him twice a day from one bed to another, via a wheelchair. He was hooked up to a machine to monitor his heart rate and other essentials, and his nurse administered regular shots of morphine. He allowed no television in his rooms, but he read newspapers in the morning and listened to the radio, which he still called the wireless, at night. 

When Doyle and Bodie had arrived at eight o’clock, they had not been allowed up to the suite. He was hearing Mass from a priest who came to his house before giving the Sunday service at a nearby church. When they were finally admitted to the old man's presence, they found him eating a grapefruit, reading _The_ _Times,_ and making disparaging remarks about the state of the world. On one hand he was an archetype, a source of amusement for his very predictability. On the other — well, Bodie had expressed it best. When they had gone downstairs to make tea in the kitchen, Doyle had made some flippant remark about Haley being a harmless old twit, and his partner had dropped his voice until it was barely audible, and replied: _‘Don’t be fooled, Ray. He’s a life-ruiner. He’s dangerous. If_ anything _should reach his ears about us, or even if he got slightly_ suspicious _, that’d be it.’_

 _‘Why should he?’_ Doyle had frowned, snapped a little; he hated it when Bodie played at being the wiser man. They'd never given anyone reason to suspect them at work. Ever.

 _‘Thank God, there’s no reason. But poor Hal, growing up with_ that, _just as he was finding out who he was — can you imagine?’_

 _‘I can’t see he’d’ve made much of a father. But then,_ my _dad wasn’t much of a father. Plenty of people have bad fathers, for one reason or another. At least Hal had all_ this _to grow up with.’_ Doyle had waved his hand to indicate the house. 

_‘What did your dad do when he found out you were queer, eh?'_

_‘He drank himself to death before he found that out. Dunno what he would’ve done. Mum doesn’t know, even now. She keeps asking when I’m going to marry a nice girl and give her grandchildren.’_

Doyle sighed as he remembered the conversation. Things between him and Bodie were still tense, despite his reassurances of the previous evening. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he’d missed him in bed last night. At first he’d enjoyed stretching out, but he’d done that awful thing that poor Hal had sometimes talked about: he’d woken in the middle of the night and reached out for a man who wasn’t there. Doyle shuddered when he thought of Jon Draper, waking in the night, reaching for a man who’d never be there again. _God, if Bodie…_  

But no, he refused to think about that. He focused his attention on boarding up the kitchen door, banging in the nails perhaps a little harder than necessary. It was a simple, manual task, and it brought Doyle to an almost meditative level of calm. When he had finished, he was hot, and his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, but he had a pleasant feeling of satisfaction. Let Draper just _try_ and get in. Let him try and get the better of CI5. Even if one of the agents guarding his target was half-hoping that he would succeed.

 

 ===============

**_London. Caravan of J. Collier. 13:36 BST._ **

===============

Hal was sitting upright on the edge of the bed when Joe and George checked on him at lunchtime. He had washed and dressed, and applied a type of aftershave that the Colliers could only dream of affording. He looked quite calm and composed, not in shock any longer.

'Just wondered if you fancied a bite to eat,' said George. 'Joe 'n' me were going to go down the pub, but we can just as easily get a takeaway.'

'Thank you,' Hal replied. His tone was as impassive as his expression. 'Is there a good Chinese place round here?'

'Only the best this side of the Thames,' said Joe, with a grin. His relief was palpable. He seemed rather more taken with the younger Haley than George would have liked. The sooner the job was done, and the toffee-nosed fairy was back on the Continent where he belonged, the better. 

'You go, Joe, there's a lad,' said George. 

'Sure thing. What d'you fancy, Hal?'

'Oh — anything and everything,' said Hal. 'Here, it's on me.' He took out his wallet and tossed Joe a couple of notes. Joe thanked him, asked George if he wanted the usual; George nodded, and Joe departed.

'So,' said George, pulling up a chair opposite the bed. 'You alright now? I understand you've had a nasty blow. We could arrange to put off the job.'

Hal had been looking at the floor, but his head snapped up and his eyes flashed. 'No. I'm doing it tonight. Tell me how you want it done, and I'll do it.'

George frowned. 'What did Jack tell you we wanted?'

Hal set his jaw. 'Revenge.' He tossed his head, and fixed George with a burning, eager expression. 'Trust me, Collier, I'm your man.'

'So — whatever we want, you're up for it?'

'What- _ever_ ,' said Hal, leaving a distinct space between the two syllables. 'Make use of me while you've still got me.'

'You got somewhere else to be?' George's tone was sarcastic.

'Eventually,' muttered Hal. 'If it's true. Shan't be long.'

George frowned again. He didn't know what Hal was talking about, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Surely even Draper, whom he knew only by reputation, would have been a simpler case than was his — George paused over several terms in his head, and didn't like the images that any of them conjured up for him. Hal was a nice bloke, if a bit odd. Determined, too. He'd get the job done. Best not to think about what he got up to when the curtains were drawn. They were still human beings, after all...

George took a breath, gave his head a little shake to clear his thoughts, and gave Hal his instructions. 

 

===============

**_Canterbury. Townhouse of E.N. Haley. 20:45 BST._ **

===============

'Wilson, come in.'

'Here, Bodie.'

'Any sign?'

'Not a sausage.'

'Damn. Doesn't make it easy, does he? Ah, well. Doyle'll be up in a minute, he's just gone for fish 'n' chips. Try not to shoot him.’

'Roger.' Wilson sounded more cheerful at the prospect of food. This was his second shift on the roof opposite Haley's house, and it was running overtime. The man meant to be relieving him had been injured in a training session earlier in the afternoon, and he had to wait for a substitute to be juggled in — or should that be out? — from the duty roster. Cowley's resources were stretched pretty thinly these days.

Bodie forgot all about Wilson when Doyle came through the kitchen door with the food. He was out of breath.

'Jesus. If I never see another fire escape again it'll be too soon.' He plonked two portions of fish and chips down on the kitchen table. He unwrapped his and popped a chip into his mouth.

‘Oughtn’t one of us to be with the old man?’

Bodie waved his hand. ‘Only entrance Wilson can’t see from where he’s sitting is that one.’ He pointed to the outer kitchen door. ‘And the door to the coal hole. But that joins onto the cellar, which comes out in the pantry.’ He gestured towards the pantry door with his head. 

‘In the house that Jack Built,’ put in Doyle. Bodie grinned, and went on: ‘And we can shoot with our mouths full.’

‘As we proved three nights ago.’

Bodie burst out laughing, but his mirth lapsed into a wistful sigh. He wouldn’t have minded a repeat of that episode tonight. _Hopefully Jon turns up in about an hour, then we can all go home. He ought to realise what a damper babysitting bigoted old gits puts on your sex life._

'So, anyway,’ Doyle went on with a grin. ‘Area’s secure, is it?’

'Downstairs is all checked,’ said Bodie. 

He was distracted by a phone ringing somewhere in the house, obviously a private line, because the extension in the kitchen did not ring. It was picked up almost straightaway. Doyle thought he heard Hardy’s voice, faintly, saying: ‘Yes?’ 

‘We’ll do upstairs when we’ve eaten,’ Bodie went on. ‘Either way, His Lordship up there insists on sending Hardy around after us, checking the locks. He "knows the house better", apparently. Well, all I can say is, if Cowley's right, and Hardy's involved with Jonny, it'll serve His Lordship right if his lawyer decides to leave a window open.'

Doyle gave him a sharp look. 'You don't think...' 

Bodie sighed. 'No, not really. If Haley trusts him that much...' He finished his sentence with a shrug.

Doyle rolled his eyes and selected another chip. ‘Just shows what he thinks of us. If he wanted brainless hired muscle he should've gone with private security,’ he said, with his mouth full. 

‘Exactly,’ said Bodie. ‘He doesn't need to treat _us_ as if we were stupid. But that’s typical of him, by all accounts.' He folded his arms. Doyle smiled his most annoying smile and murmured: ‘Customer’s always right.'

Bodie felt his scowl deepen. Doyle, in what was obviously a placating gesture, shoved the still-wrapped package further towards him, and said: 'Come on, Mr Cheerful. Eat.'

Bodie unwrapped his fish and chips. With his first mouthful he realised how hungry he was, and ate quickly, trying not to look at Doyle, who was licking his fingers with a thoughtful expression on his face. He either didn't realise how utterly seductive he looked, or he was being a bastard. Bodie read one of the articles on the sheet of newspaper that his dinner had been wrapped in.

‘Fuck!’

Doyle looked at him, startled out of his reverie. ‘What?’

‘I missed the match yesterday.’

‘I’m surprised you weren’t glued to the telly. I saw bits in the pub.’

‘I went out for a walk,’ Bodie said shortly. He’d felt restless after Doyle had gone out. He hadn’t been able to think about anything except what his partner was probably doing with Rachel Donovan. He frowned as Doyle’s words sunk in. ‘You were at the pub?’

‘Yeah. Good places to talk, pubs. Neutral. You know.’

‘Were you there the whole time?’

‘Well, not the _whole_ time,’ said Doyle. His thoughtful expression was now definitely exaggerated. ‘I picked Rachel up from her flat, and drove her back afterwards. So I was in the car, sometimes.’ 

‘Right.' 

Bodie put on his best poker face and went back to his bit of paper. Inside, a little more of the weight pressing on his chest seemed to have lifted. But with the next words he read, it was as if an extra tonne had landed on him.

‘Oh, my God.’

‘What? Are they playing secret cricket matches out of season now, or… Bodie?’ Doyle stopped fooling when he looked at him properly. Bodie could just imagine how his face looked, if it was anything like reflecting how he felt.

‘Ash is missing.’

‘Who’s Ash?’

‘You’ve heard me mention Ash. Luke Ashford. He was best man at Jamie’s wedding. Lovely kid. You’d like him.’

‘Oh, that Ash. Sorry to hear that — he’s in the army, isn’t he?’ Doyle looked first sympathetic, then very, very interested. ‘Hang on. He’s not in the Falklands?’

Bodie nodded. Doyle gave him an _I can’t believe you’re not getting this_ look. ‘Bodie, they don’t usually print names, do they?' 

Bodie bit his lip. He’d been so struck by the news that it hadn’t occurred to him that the article was unusual. Doyle nodded. ‘Yeah. What do you make of that?’

‘Well, it could be totally innocent. He’s an officer, his family might have given permission, the information’s not damaging, doesn’t imply mass casualties, could be anything like that. But on the other hand…’

‘It could be nothing to do with the war at all. It could be a message. Or we could just be getting overly suspicious in our old age.’

They looked at each other. The look lasted three seconds at most before Bodie reached for the case containing the scrambler.

‘Best to be sure,’ he said, as the phone rang. Doyle nodded, and reached for one of Bodie’s chips.

_‘Cowley.’_

‘Sir,’ said Bodie. ‘3-7 here. There might be a development.’

_‘Is Haley…’_

‘No, sir, it’s nothing to do with our case.’ He explained as concisely as he could.

Cowley’s voice was soft and musing on the other end of the line. _‘Luke Ashford goes missing — an assassin is sent after Jonathan Draper.’_

‘You think they were definitely after him, sir?’

_‘As opposed to Owen Haley? Oh, almost certainly.’_

‘Their information wasn’t very good then, sir.’

 _‘No.’_ Cowley was silent for a moment. _‘I’m drawing no conclusions now, Bodie. This business with Haley Senior might have no connection at all with the murder of his son — which was almost certainly the attempted murder of Draper. On the other hand it might_ all _be connected. This makes it even more imperative that you bring Draper to me alive. Do you understand?’_

‘Sir, that’s why you sent Doyle and me in the first place. We’re not exactly trigger-happy when it comes to Draper. And Wilson won’t shoot without our say-so. _’_

 _‘Maybe not,’_ said Cowley. _‘But there’s someone who’s a much greater danger to Draper’s life than you or Doyle.’_  

‘You think the assassin will have realised his mistake and followed him here?’

_‘I’m not talking about the assassin, Bodie. I’m talking about Draper himself. If he’s determined to kill Edward Haley, that may be fixed in his mind as his last task. At least, we can hope so. We can hope his body doesn’t wash up on the riverbank tomorrow morning.’_

‘I hope not, sir,’ muttered Bodie. The thought of losing Jon made his throat tight and tears prick at the backs of his eyes.

' _Will you put Doyle on, please?’_  

‘Sir.’ Bodie passed the phone to Doyle and resumed what was left of his meal. Doyle, for the most part, just listened. Then he said: ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ and hung up. 

‘What was all that about?’ asked Bodie.

‘Oh. Just an update on the Matlock case. Those older files your girlfriends in Records were turning up for you. Apparently his relationship with the Collier family goes right back to the war. And there was a client, an unknown, but a big one. He was bringing in a lot of money. The police never found out who it was.’

‘Not gonna help us now, is it?’

‘Probably not.’ Doyle shrugged. ‘But d’you want to know something funny?’ Bodie looked at him expectantly. ‘The Collier brothers — first generation, that is — when they were put away back in ’48, guess who the prosecuting counsel was? Nicholas Hardy. _That_ Mr Hardy’s father.’ He pointed to the ceiling. ‘Michael’s a solicitor, but his dad was a KC. He was kicked off the bar fifteen years later for perverting the course of justice. I _knew_ I’d read that name somewhere. It was one of me first arrests he nearly fucked up.’

‘You don’t s’pose the Colliers were innocent, do you?’

‘Not for a minute. They had too much form. Then and afterwards.’

‘Never mind, Ray,’ Bodie said with a smile. ‘We’ll get ‘em. Cal, Rex — they’ll be getting closer as we speak.’

‘I dare say‘ — Doyle laughed — ‘but that mightn’t have anything to do with work.’

‘C’mere, you pillock. C’mere.’ Bodie jumped up from the table and beckoned to Doyle. He backed into the pantry, and Doyle followed.

‘What? Fish ‘n’ chips not enough for you?’

‘No,’ Bodie said grimly. He switched the light on, shut the door, cupped Doyle’s jaw roughly in both hands, and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

Doyle pushed him away. ‘Are you mad?’ Bodie raised one eyebrow. Doyle threw himself forward, took Bodie’s breath away with his return kiss. Bodie pushed him up against the nearest available bit of wall, and began unbuttoning Doyle’s shirt, dropping kisses down his torso as he went. 

‘No more couples,’ he said, in a harsh whisper. ‘Don’t talk to me about them. Not when we’re stuck in this Purgatory. My oldest friend’s just lost the love of his life. I’ll probably lose _him_ after tonight. And I’ve got you — and can’t have you — fuck that.’ He unzipped Doyle’s jeans. He knew he wasn’t making much sense. He knew he was taking a terrible risk — but he had to have Doyle, had to taste him. He gloried in the first taste of him. He went down hard, decisively, not teasing or gentle. He looked up a few minutes later to see Doyle with one hand over his mouth, breathing through his nose, eyes tight shut. Wouldn’t be long, then. Bodie dug his fingers into Doyle’s backside, pressing where his touch would create an echo of pleasure. His mouth took in more; he nearly gagged, drew back, sucked harder, and Doyle’s hips jerked, and his taste overwhelmed Bodie’s senses. A moment later Bodie stood up, and looked at his partner — his wide eyes, and ragged breaths, and lazy, wonderful, Doyle-ish smile.

‘Can Rachel Donovan do _that?_ ’ he couldn’t resist asking.

‘Never got the chance to find out,’ said Doyle, as he did his clothes back up again. ‘We only did it the once. Her mouth wasn’t really involved.’

Bodie’s jaw dropped as he struggled under a flood of indignation. ‘So what have you been…' 

‘Talking. And sleeping — we’ve _slept_ together, but that’s all. We slept. Cuddled a bit. I told you, you didn’t need to worry.’

A question occurred to Bodie that had been dancing at the back of his mind, just out of reach, kept at bay by his jealousy and anger at himself for pushing Doyle into the affair — or whatever it was. 

‘Ray — who _is_ she?’

Doyle kissed him. ‘I told you. I don’t have time to explain now. And we’re running out of time for this…’ He trailed off deliberately, with an angelic smile, and gave Bodie a not-so-angelic shove back into the wall against which he’d just been standing.

A door creaked, and Hardy’s voice called: ‘Lads?’

‘Shit!’ Bodie and Doyle mouthed simultaneously at each other. It was Doyle who thought fastest. He rushed noiselessly across the pantry, opened the door that led to the cellar steps, and shut it audibly. Bodie caught on straightaway, suppressing disappointment at his lack of gratification.

‘That you, Hardy? We were just checking the cellar!’ He opened the pantry door. ‘All’s secure. We were just about to check upstairs, weren’t we, Ray?’

‘Yup.’ Doyle gave Hardy an amiable, close-lipped smile. ‘She’s all yours. Since you _have_ to go round after us.’

‘Er, yes, I’m sorry about that.’ Hardy grimaced. ‘Just the way the old man is, I’m afraid. If you wouldn’t mind checking the upper floors, and then reporting to the first-floor suite — he’d like a word before Nadine moves him to the bedroom.’ 

‘Sure. Come on, Bodie.’

Bodie followed Doyle out of the kitchen. As they mounted the stairs, Doyle turned around, grinned, and mouthed: ‘Later, eh?’ Bodie placed a hand on his backside and gave him a gentle push.

‘Up to the old tricks, are we?’

‘Old ones are the best ones.’

Doyle danced out of reach, and Bodie, laughing, clattered up after him. They bypassed the first floor and went on to the second. Edward Haley’s bedroom, before he had moved down to the first-floor suite, was on that floor, the windows securely locked. It smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been aired for a while. All the rooms were like that. Haley didn't seem to have had permanent housekeeping staff in months. Bodie and Doyle had had to dodge a cook a few times that day, but she had left at two. Haley had his main meal at lunchtime, and his nurse waited on him the rest of the time.

‘Place seems dead,’ Doyle whispered, as they entered a spare bedroom to the right of the stairs. Bodie looked around the neat, clean space, and remembered something Jon had told him once — he had stayed in this room when he and Hal were boys. Hal had come in one evening, fallen asleep on the bed, and Jon had sat on a chair in the corner of the room, and watched him, mesmerised. _‘I felt so much at peace, just looking at him, knowing he was there. That’s when I really_ knew. _I’ll never forget that moment.’_

‘Poor bastard,’ muttered Bodie.

‘Who is?’ asked Doyle, turning around from the window. Then he looked at Bodie, and nodded. ‘Oh.’

Bodie stalked out of the room, leaving Doyle to follow. They walked up to the third floor more sombrely than they’d climbed to the second.

‘Hal slept up here,’ Bodie said to Doyle. ‘It was the nursery originally. His father never would let him move downstairs. It was his way of asserting control, keeping Hal in his place.’

‘Hmm,’ said Doyle. Bodie didn’t need to look at him to know what he’d be thinking. He couldn’t get his head around the realities of Hal’s childhood, because it had been privileged. To him, if the material world had existed in abundance for a person, things could never have been _that bad._ Little did he know. Even Bodie only partially understood it.

Most of the third floor was given over to storage. There were boxes piled high against the walls, and furniture covered in white sheets. The same musty smell permeated throughout, and there were bars on all the windows. No broom reached up here, for there was a thick layer of dust over everything, and cobwebs in all the corners. A particularly large spider reminded Bodie of a nasty experience when he was first in Africa as a kid — a shiver ran down his spine, and he was glad Doyle wasn’t watching him.

One room still looked like a bedroom. Bodie knew it was the one, even without the connecting door that led into what would once have been the governess’ room beyond. It was the only room on the third floor that had its own bathroom, and he remembered Hal saying something about that, once. There were bars on the window there, too. The toilet bowl had rusted, and there was damp up near the ceiling. Bodie didn’t stay there long. He came back into Hal’s old room just as Doyle entered from the adjoining one.

‘Well, no one’s getting in here any more than Hal was getting out,’ Doyle said, with an air of curt determination: they had to be _practical,_ they had to be _professional_. Forget personal involvement. Forget sympathy. Forget bereavement. But Bodie couldn’t. And Doyle couldn’t either, really, which was why he was pretending. Bodie sighed and walked over to the desk. He opened it, hoping to see some evidence of Hal — a forgotten book, perhaps, or a notepad, or some graffiti on the inside of the drawer. But there was nothing.

‘No false bottom?’ Doyle asked, watching him. Bodie smiled and shook his head. Doyle opened the bedside table drawer, and pulled out a large tin box. He shook it, then opened it. It was empty. Then he began prodding and pushing the tin, until, after a moment, a secret compartment opened up.

‘Seems to be a couple of letters,’ said Doyle. ‘They’ve been opened.’ He slid one out of its envelope, being careful not to tear the old, yellowed, brittle paper. He unfolded it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it to Bodie.

‘Can’t read a word. It’s in some sort of code.’

‘They’ll be from Jon.’ Bodie swallowed. ‘He ought to have them back.’ He reached out his other hand, and Doyle passed him the other letter, and the envelope for the first. Bodie placed both into his inside pocket.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said. He turned at the door when he heard a loud creak from behind him. ‘Loose floorboard?’

‘Yeah.’ Doyle tapped his foot on it, and got down on one knee. ‘Another secret stash, maybe?’ He searched his pockets, then put his hand out to Bodie. ‘Have you got the knife?’

Bodie tossed ‘their’ Swiss Army knife over to Doyle. He couldn’t remember, now, who’d owned it first. They had never bothered to get a second one. Bodie considered it a perfect a symbol of their partnership — it was better than a wedding ring, anyway. Whether this had ever occurred to Doyle, he wouldn’t have liked to ask. 

He watched Doyle prise up the floorboard, and let out his breath slowly. There was a Post Office savings book, and a folded piece of paper.

‘Just the one letter here,’ said Doyle. ‘It’s in English, anyway.’ As Bodie watched him reading, a frown etched itself deeply across his features. A few seconds later he looked up, shaking his head.

‘Christ, Bodie, this is horrible.’

Bodie crouched down and took the letter — and almost wished he hadn’t.

> _20-8-60_
> 
> _Beloved,_
> 
> _I’m so sorry. It was all my fault, not yours._ _I_ _kissed_ _you_ _, remember? Don’t blame yourself, whatever you do. Father locked me into my bedroom before I could leave, or I would have run away tonight. Tomorrow I shall try to reason with him. I’ll offer to leave school and go to naval college, like he wanted. Maybe if I can convince him I’m ready to change and be who he wants, he won’t send me to_ _that place_ _. That way it’ll only be a few years before I can chuck the whole thing and we can go away together._
> 
> _Next day —_
> 
> _I hope you never have a reason to be this frightened. I can hardly write. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and he hasn’t come to let me out. Every time I hear a car outside I’m nearly sick with fear. I’m sure he’s sent for them, the men in white coats as it were, and I’m having visions of them tying me up in a straitjacket and carrying me off to do God knows what. I don’t know if I’ll ever get this letter to you, but if I do — if you’re reading this — please don’t worry about it working._ _It can’t work!_ _You can’t change someone’s nature. Or their feelings. Maybe I might pretend that it’s worked, but then as soon as I get out, you know where I’ll go, and that is straight to wherever_ _you_ _are._
> 
> _Don’t think about what’s going to happen. Just remember one thing._ _I love you forever._ _I’m not sure I’ve written that in English before. Let there be no doubt, my dearest, dearest Jonny, I’m queer, I always will be, and I am so very much in love with you. Dry your tears and remember when we were happy, and think about when we’ll be happy again._
> 
> _Tuis in perpetuum —_
> 
> _Hal._

Bodie found himself blinking back tears. Somehow, reading about what Hal had suffered at sixteen made his death, less than twenty-four hours ago, seem worse. He looked at Doyle, whose frown had developed into a scowl.

‘Why are we even here, Bodie?’ he asked. ‘Why are we protecting the man who did _that?’_ He flicked at the letter with one finger. ‘We should just let Jon finish him off.’

‘I’ve been struggling with that question all day,’ said Bodie. ‘But if Haley dies Cowley will guess why, Ray. It’d be the end for us. He’s had us protect worse men, hasn’t he? And there’ll be worse again until the day we retire.’

‘Maybe that day ought to be sooner rather than later.’

'Yeah? And how do we make a living?’

‘Dunno — we’d manage, wouldn’t we?’ 

Bodie was silent. Thoughts rushed through his head so fast that he couldn’t keep track of them. Visions he hadn’t let himself have since Doyle was shot. Visions of life after CI5.

Doyle prompted: ‘Wouldn’t we?’ His voice was soft and deep: the timbre of seduction without the mood. The look on his face, appealing eyes, slightly parted lips… Bodie’s insides clenched. He felt — how had Hal put it once? _Like you’re going to fall in, and you don't mind a bit._ But now was not the time to fall.

‘We can’t discuss this now,’ he hedged. ‘We shouldn’t still be here.’

Doyle seemed to come back to reality. His mouth twisted. ‘Too right. Let’s get out of this mortuary.’

They stood up. They exchanged a look that was almost as good as a kiss. They left the room in silence and trudged down to the first floor.

 

=================

‘Hardy thought I’d better debrief you,’ saidthe man in the sick-bed. ‘Valuable man, Hardy.’ 

Bodie looked at Edward Haley, and tried not to hate him. It was strange to see a man so like his son in appearance, sharing some of his facial expressions, yet so radically different in character. It showed how one’s personality could alter someone’s looks, draw the lines on their face. Even in his seventies, the elder Haley was handsome, but in a hard, angular, ruthless sort of way, almost a James Bond type of character, a talented, efficient, but not a _nice_ man. His son’s beauty had been softer, his face more expressive; there had been an elegance about him that the old man, though dying, would still have exhibited if he had ever possessed it. 

There had been kindness in Hal’s eyes, laughter in his mouth. Love had been his driving force. And that face, that elegance, that force, had been scattered over Lake Geneva in a matter of seconds. This old, poisonous, obsolete, shit of a man, _he_ still clung on. And how long, with the best medical care that money could buy, would he stay? Doctors, priests, lawyers, all waited on him. His live-in nurse, Nadine, hovered over his bed even now. He’d be on Earth longer than poor Jon, for whom that explosion would be as much a death-knell as if he’d been on the boat himself. The old man could sit up here and crow in his last days, knowing that he had survived both halves of the relationship he had worked so hard to destroy.

‘Perhaps you have heard that my son was killed last night,’ said Haley. ‘Of course, that causes me terrible sadness.’

 _Liar,_ thought Bodie.

‘But, now is not the time for mourning. Draper will almost certainly have heard of Owen’s death, and assuming he has, he is now even more dangerous. He’s obsessed with my son, you see. Always has been.' He looked at Bodie. 'That’s why he murdered the teacher who touched Owen at school, you know. He couldn’t have his most prized possession violated.’ The old man’s mouth twisted. ‘And since they both blamed _me_ for Draper’s choice of career, no doubt Draper will blame me for my son’s death. He’ll be even more determined to kill me. He’ll feel cheated by God, no doubt, if the cancer gets me before he does.’

 _‘_ Sir,’ said Bodie. ‘I know I won’t be able to change what you think. But for what it’s worth — Draper really did love your son. And your son loved _him_. You might think it was a terrible evil, but it doesn’t make it any less real. And the thing is…’

‘What do you know about it? Are you some sort of deviant like them?’ He tried to sit up, but fell back on his pillows. Nadine, with a frown of matronly sternness in Bodie’s direction, fussed around him, clucking like a mother hen, murmuring: ‘Mr Haley, you shouldn’t excite yourself so.’

‘I’m speaking as someone who knew them well, that’s all,’ Bodie protested. A look from Doyle told him to back off, and he did. ‘But I apologise for upsetting you. I assure you, my partner and I are here to protect you. And if we have to…’ 

Wilson’s voice interrupted him at this point, coming over the R/T, saving him from having to say the next words: _if we have to, we’ll kill him._ Lying usually came naturally to Bodie, but he was struggling against the urge to tell Haley exactly what he thought of him — and that Draper was more valuable to Cowley alive than dead. 

‘Go ahead, 7-5.’

‘Just spotted a figure climbing into the garden. Probably male, but there’s no way of ID-ing him; he’s wearing a balaclava. Awaiting instruction to shoot. Over.’

‘Good God, the audacity of the man!’ Haley gasped. ‘Tell your man to shoot, Agent Bodie.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,’ Bodie said. Into the R/T, he said: ‘Keep him in your sights as long as possible, 7-5, but do not take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot. Cowley wants him alive, and even if you don’t shoot to kill, wounding him at a distance would give him a prime opportunity to take his _own_ life. He doesn’t know we’re watching him. If he’s allowed to enter the house thinking he’s not been seen, we can get up close and disarm him. Over.’

‘Righto, 3-7. Over and out.’

The R/T crackled and went silent.

‘No need to worry, sir,’ Doyle said to Haley. But they all jumped a little when the door opened. Bodie’s hand froze halfway to his gun when he saw Hardy making his quiet way into the room.

‘All entrances are secure, Mr Haley,’ he said. 

‘Can Draper pick locks?’ Haley demanded of Bodie.

‘I believe so, sir.' 

‘Then all entrances are _not_ secure, Hardy.’

‘They are when the doors are bolted, sir, and that has been done.’

Haley nodded, and turned once again to Bodie. ‘What if Draper can’t get in? What will he do?’

‘There’s nothing he _can_ do,’ said Bodie. ‘He’ll try again tomorrow, most likely. Perhaps with a daylight shot. He was a sniper, as you probably know, sir. So I would advise you to keep your curtains closed, and stick to this room; with our man where he is on the rooftop, it’ll be difficult if not impossible for Draper to get a clear shot at you.’

‘Hardy gave me similar advice,’ said Haley.

‘Did you hear anything downstairs, Mr Hardy?’ asked Doyle. 

‘No, why?’ 

‘We’ve just heard from our man on the rooftop — he saw someone climbing over the garden wall.’

 _‘What?_ But that’s…’

Hardy trailed off, stunned out of his usual inscrutability. Bodie felt almost sorry for him. Doyle, on the other hand, was frowning in the lawyer’s direction. Bodie knew that look. But what reason could Doyle have to be suspicious? It was obvious enough that Hardy’s surprise was genuine.

Below them, a floorboard creaked.

‘He’s here,’ said Haley. In the older man’s look of fear, Bodie saw the younger. Hal must have hated how much he looked like his father. But the thought flew from Bodie’s mind as he saw Doyle move out of the corner of his eye. It was a slight movement; Doyle had turned towards him. There were times in their partnership when one deferred to the other. This was one of those times. Doyle raised his eyebrows, and Bodie read the question in them. 

‘ _What now? He’s more your friend than mine. You, me, or both of us?’_  

Bodie flicked his eyes in Haley’s direction and jerked his head towards the door. _‘Both. He’ll expect it.’_ Doyle nodded, and they moved towards the door together.

‘He’s in the study,’ said Haley. Then he frowned, and looked at Hardy. ‘What’s he doing there?’

The last thing Bodie heard was Hardy answering that they’d soon find out. He and Doyle went soundlessly down the stairs. They had been up and down them enough times that day to know that the creaks came in the middle, so they kept to the edges. Once on the ground floor, they took out their guns. Another noise came from behind the study door, which was pulled to. Bodie’s heart pounded as he cocked his gun, but the noises — a metallic click now, followed by soft shuffling — continued as if the intruder hadn’t been disturbed.

 _He’s out of practice,_ thought Bodie. He looked at Doyle, who nodded. Bodie went into the study first. The door moved soundlessly on its hinges, and the black-clad figure on the other side of the room did not look up.

He was bent halfway over, with a torch in his hand. He was sorting through documents in a large safe in the corner of the room. Bodie watched him, and his heart beat faster. Something about him wasn’t right. The figure was still familiar, but…

The man at the safe turned a page, gasped, and muttered: ‘You fucking arsehole.’

Hal’s voice. Hal’s figure, the wrong height and shape for Jon; Bodie ought to have known. Hal’s breath, shaking, and Hal’s shoulders quivering. Not with fear, or grief, but _rage._

But that didn’t matter. What did any of it matter? Hal was at the safe. Hal was alive. He hadn’t been aboard the boat. Which could only mean…

Bodie’s knees buckled. He reached for the wall to steady himself. His hand slapped against plastic, and the room flooded with light. Fleetingly, Bodie shut his eyes against his own stupidity. The figure at the safe froze. 

Before he could turn around, Doyle put up his gun, and said: ‘Stop what you’re doing. Put your hands where I can see them and turn round slowly.’

Hal put down the torch and the file he had been holding. He laced his hands on the back of his head, and sighed.

‘Well, go on,’ he said, as he turned. ‘Shoot…’

He stopped speaking, and stared when he realised who had confronted him. He barely even glanced at Doyle; he looked at Bodie, and a violent shudder shook his whole body.

‘He’s dead,’ Hal choked out. Bodie nodded, his mouth closed and throat working against the threat of weeping. Hal walked forward, his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. His eyes were dry, but he looked desperate, and exhausted. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, and strained, as if talking were an effort. 

‘God, will you just get on with it? You’re my friend — you’ll do this for me, won’t you, Bodie? No one’ll blame you. Say I struggled. If I can’t do what I came here to do, I’m not interested in…’

He closed his mouth, blinking in astonishment at the handcuffs Doyle had just slapped onto his outstretched wrists.

‘Thanks for your cooperation,’ he said grimly. ‘Now come on.’ He pulled on the cuffs, forcing Hal to come with him. ‘Your father needs to know his life’s not in any danger.’

Doyle marched Hal towards the stairs. Bodie, switching off the light in the study, followed more slowly.

 

===============

When Edward Haley saw who Doyle led into his room, he looked stupefied. Even if he hadn’t been convinced it was Draper, he must have expected virtually anyone else. Doyle thought he might have looked relieved — surely even with a shattered relationship, his son was still his son — but instead he looked uncomfortable, afraid, even. But that probably had more to do with the expression of naked loathing on Hal’s face _._

_‘Owen.’_

‘Yes, me,’ Hal snapped. ‘And I’m not here to kill you, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.' 

‘Why _are_ you here, then?’ demanded his father. ‘Why sneak into a house you’d been invited to visit?’

Doyle and Bodie exchanged a look. They hadn’t known that Haley had contacted his son. From what Doyle had heard, it wasn’t surprising that Hal had not accepted the invitation.

‘I didn’t want to sit by your bedside and reminisce.’ Hal squared his shoulders. ‘I came here for information.’

‘Just _came_ here? Or were you sent?’

‘Yes.' 

The old man’s face darkened. ‘By Draper?’

‘Don’t mention his name.’ Hal’s eyes flashed, then he seemed to force himself to calm down. ‘No, sir, it wasn’t him. Believe it or not, Jon didn’t bear you any grudge. At least, not for himself.’

Edward Haley dropped his eyes momentarily. ‘I did hear about the explosion, son. I expect you are deeply saddened. You were with that man for a long time.’

‘Yes, sir, I was.’

‘You can imagine my relief at seeing you here.’

‘You’ll be more relieved that he’s gone.’

‘I admit it.’ Edward shrugged. ‘The ties made in youth are often the hardest to break. Perhaps only death _could_ have done it. But now he no longer has any hold over you, you have the freedom to make something of your life.’

Hal’s eyes widened. He made an odd, strangled sound, gestured wildly with his cuffed hands, and shouted something in a foreign language: Doyle thought it was probably Greek.

‘I don’t understand,’ Edward said mildly. ‘You know I don’t.’

 _‘You are going to lose your son and never welcome him at home again. For I have no wish to live and linger in the world of men,’_ Hal translated. His father looked merely impatient. 

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, boy. Homeric sentimentalism cuts no ice here. Remember, you’ve been caught red-handed in my house. You said you wanted information. Was he in the study, Mr Doyle?’

‘He was at the safe, sir,’ Doyle told him. Hal gave him the sort of look one schoolboy gives another who’s snitched on him. Doyle had no patience with that sort of thing. He was interested in doing his job. He let his eyes convey that to Hal, who looked away as if ashamed. Upon receipt of the information, the old man’s chest rose higher and faster; he breathed hard with what was plainly fury, not fully expressible because of his condition. His pupils were fully dilated, so that his eyes, which were normally grey, looked black. He tried once again to sit up, but Nadine restrained him.

‘You might well be angry,’ Hal burst out. I know your secrets now, you fucking hypocrite. I know what you’ve been paying Vic Matlock to keep quiet.’

‘Matlock?’ repeated Doyle, at the same time as Bodie said: ‘What?’

‘Did that double-crossing bastard send you here?’ Haley demanded.

‘No,’ snapped Hal. ‘Peter Collier’s son did.’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled, watching the information sink in. ‘You remember that name, then. The man you put in prison, with the aid of your flunky, Nicholas Hardy. Sorry, Michael,’ he added, with an apologetic glance at the present Mr Hardy.

‘It’s alright,’ Hardy said quietly. ‘I’ve long wanted to make amends for my father’s actions.’

‘What do you mean?’ Edward gave Hardy a startled look.

‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ Hardy said, stepping back from the bed. ‘I don’t like to betray a man’s trust. But I must obey my conscience.’

‘Are you saying you — you orchestrated this?’

‘No, I didn’t, I…’

‘You were just a pawn, right, Hardy?’ a new voice suggested. Hal gave a short, choked gasp.

The door swung open. Edward Haley’s jaw dropped. Bodie exhaled sharply. Doyle put up his gun, gave Bodie an urgent look, and Bodie mirrored him with obvious reluctance.

It was Jon Draper standing there, holding a Russian automatic pistol. Despite obviously having recognised his voice, Hal swayed at the sight of him, as if he were going to faint. He gave a dry sob, burst out: ‘Oh my _God!’_ and lurched forward. Jon took what looked like a half-conscious step towards him. The sight of Doyle’s gun stopped them both.

‘Why?’ he asked, at the same time as Draper’s sharper: ‘What are you doing?’

Doyle answered Draper: ‘My job. How do I know you two haven’t set up this whole thing?’

‘Ray, come on,’ Bodie protested.

‘I thought he’d been killed!’ Hal made another wild, two-handed gesture. He looked on the verge of a breakdown. The look Jon gave him was heart-wrenching, even for Doyle. He _knew_ the feeling behind that look, knew it first-hand; he had been in that situation so many times, because of who he and Bodie were, and what they did — _want to touch you, want to hold you, so badly it hurts —_ the waiting was agonising.

‘There’s no _way_ that was fake.’ Bodie backed Hal up.

 _‘How?_ ’ Hal demanded. ‘Why was everyone so sure there was someone on board the boat?’

‘Because I left our anti-theft device on,’ Jon said. When Doyle and Bodie both gave him blank looks, he explained: ‘We leave the radio on, we leave the light on in the bedroom, and we put the shower on a timer. Every half hour, the water comes on for ten minutes.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Hal choked. ‘Why didn’t I realise?’

‘Why would you have? The report wasn’t that specific.’

‘I’ve been in hell, Jon. I was ready to kill myself.’

Jon bit his lip. ‘I know, dearest.’ The endearment sounded quaint, almost laughable, but appropriate at the same time — it was, after all, literally true. His voice had quivered slightly; he paused, and swallowed. ‘I heard what you said to Doyle in the study. Promise me I’ll never hear you say anything like that again.’

‘If I’d thought you were alive to hear it I wouldn’t have said it, would I?’

Jon sighed, and nodded. Hal was gazing at him as if he had forgotten anyone else was in the room. Jon gazed back. They were standing ten feet apart, their bodies angled towards each other as if they were struggling against an irresistible magnetism. Doyle knew that the moment he and Bodie put down their guns, they would be in each other’s arms. He felt almost cruel in delaying the impulse. 

‘Doyle’s got a point, though,’ said Jon. ‘I can see how it looks from where he’s standing. But it’s alright. I know a way round it.’ He hefted the gun. ‘This is pure precaution, you know. I’ll put it down in a minute. You can arrest us both. We need to see Cowley — well, I do, especially. A man’s life depends on it.’ He glanced, fleetingly, at his watch. ‘I shan’t elaborate to anyone but Cowley, you must understand that. Anyway, I don’t suppose you’d let Hal take those files where he intended to take them. But the result might still be satisfactory to all parties, if Cowley agrees to release the information — right, Hal?’

Hal looked dazed. ‘How much do you know?’

‘I followed you,’ Jon said. ‘I knew something was up. There’s no way you would have changed your mind about that letter. I’ve been watching you almost constantly ever since you left.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell me you were alive?’ Hal’s voice had a shrill edge to it.

‘I’ll explain that later. I’m sorry I had to do it. But you do agree — the Colliers might make a deal?’ 

‘I expect so. They just don’t trust the police.’

‘They’ll listen to Cowley,’ Jon said. He flashed a grin at Bodie and Doyle. 

‘And I suppose you think _you two_ can just make a deal, and Cowley’ll let you waltz off back to Switzerland?’ Doyle asked. _I spend years going after Matlock and the Colliers, and Jonathan bloody Draper just sweeps past and…_

‘Why not?’ Jon asked, shrugging. ‘We haven’t done anything.’

Doyle shot him a disbelieving look. ‘Hal just broke into…’

‘No, he didn’t,’ Hardy interrupted, his voice gentle, but insistent. ‘I let him in. I even suggested to Edward that he order you two to let me double-check the locks. And I gave Owen the combination to the safe.’

‘You filthy traitor,’ Edward Haley spat. ‘Why?’

‘It’s his hundredth day,’ murmured Doyle.

‘What?’ demanded Haley.

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Like I said — to ease my conscience,’ Hardy replied. ‘I never approved of what my father did, and I grew tired of protecting a position I’d only inherited.’

‘We’ll have to ask you to come with us, Mr Hardy,’ said Doyle.

‘Fine.’ Hardy’s face was impassive, his tone serene.

‘Okay, great,’ said Jon. ‘Now, I want the gun and the cuffs off my partner. Then I’ll cheerfully disarm myself.’

Bodie put down his pistol straightaway. Doyle would have liked to see Jon disarm first, but if Bodie wasn’t going to back him up — he gritted his teeth and laid his gun down at his feet. He raised his eyebrows at Jon.

‘And the cuffs,’ Jon prompted.

‘He’s under arrest.’

‘I’m not going anywhere!’ protested Hal.

That was fair enough. If Jon went to Cowley, Hal would follow, there was no question about that. Doyle took the handcuff key from his inside pocket and freed Hal’s hands.

‘Right.’ Jon put his own gun away and grinned. He and Hal looked at each other.

‘Hello,’ Jon said. His eyes sparkled with delight. Hal shook his head and gave him a wry smile.  

‘You, come here, right now.’  

They both started towards each other. Doyle saw Edward Haley’s movement out of the corner of his eye, but it was Hal who screamed the warning. The pistol was in his father’s hand before Doyle or Bodie could pick up theirs. Jon dived, and a bullet smacked into the wall behind where his head had just been.

For a second or two, there was complete silence, except for Jon’s shaky breathing. He lay at Hal’s feet with his arms over his head, trembling. Hal’s mouth was open, shock and outrage etched onto his face. He turned slowly towards his father. Bodie and Doyle looked at each other, and two unspoken words passed between them: _be ready._ It was Nadine who removed the little pistol from the old man’s hand. He must have kept it hidden beneath his pillow. He yielded to his nurse like a babe. He was watching his son, who was staring at him with a look of such ferocity that Doyle’s stomach flipped; he bent down and picked up his gun.

‘Hal,’ Jon croaked, as he raised his head.

Hal threw himself towards the foot of the bed.

‘Hal, don’t!’ Jon managed to grab Hal’s ankle, make him stumble. That was something.

‘Don’t move,’ said Bodie. He looked as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth. He must never have _dreamed_ he’d ever have to put a bullet into Owen Haley — but Hal did stop; Doyle couldn’t tell if he’d noticed the guns, but Jon had leapt to his feet, and his arms were locked around Hal’s chest. Hal struggled wildly for a moment, but settled for pointing one finger towards his father, stabbing the air, the rest of his hand clenched into a fist.

‘You evil _bastard!’_ His voice was hysterical, raised almost to a scream. ‘You miserable fucking cunt. You sicken me. You’re pathetic! You think killing him’s going to change who I am? He has no _hold_ over me! He’s not forcing me into this! Or do you just hate me so much — you just want to hurt me, is that it? For Christ’s sake, Father — this man you just tried to kill — he’s _everything to me,_ do you understand? Whether _you_ like it or not. If you kill him, you kill me. I mean, do you _want_ me dead?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ his father snapped. ‘You might have been too brainwashed to see it, but I have only _ever_ tried to help you.’

 _‘Help_ me?’ Hal yelled. His voice cracked, and a tear coursed down each cheek. Jon had loosened his hold and was saying his name, trying to turn him around, but Hal didn’t seem to register his efforts. He was shaking all over. ‘You thought sending me away to get my cock electrocuted, three times a week for _nine months_ , was _helping_ me? You thought you were _helping_ me by driving the man I loved half-crazy with grief, so he went to Russia and nearly died? And now I suppose you thought you’d give me more _help_ , putting a bullet in his brain?’

‘Poor Hal,’ Bodie muttered to Doyle. ‘He’s had all this bottled up for twenty years.’ Doyle nodded grimly.

‘Even if I _knew_ you were right,’ Hal went on. ‘Even if it really _were_ a choice between an empty life and eternity in heaven, or one lifetime with Jon Draper and eternity in hell — don’t you get it? _I still choose him.’_

‘Hal,’ Jon murmured. His eyes were very bright. He stroked Hal’s hair and kissed his temple. Hal finally seemed to remember he was being held. Abruptly, he dropped his raised arm, and turned sideways.

‘Oh God,’ he half-sobbed. He gripped Jon’s jaw in both hands, pressed nose and forehead against his. ‘My beautiful boy. _I love you._ So much.’ He tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. Jon swallowed hard, ran his thumbs across Hal’s cheeks, and Hal kissed him, full on the mouth and right in front of his father. The old man looked sick with disgust, but he must have been morbidly fascinated: he stared at them in silence. 

Jon embodied the cliché — he went, literally and visibly, weak at the knees. When Hal drew back he clung to his shoulders, gazed at him with outright, unmitigated adoration, and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Doyle saw his mouth moving, forming words close to Hal’s ear, that made Hal clutch him even tighter. Doyle did what Bodie already had. He put away his gun.

‘You call Cowley. I’ll call Wilson.’

‘Right,’ said Bodie, and left the room.

 

===============

The half hour that followed seemed to go very quickly. Bodie returned from the kitchen, where he had phoned Cowley and explained who they were bringing in, and that the situation wasn’t what they’d thought it was.

 _‘It never is when Draper’s involved,’_ Cowley had remarked. _‘I’ll see you shortly.’_

Once all of them except Haley and Nadine were out of the first-floor suite — Nadine was helping a dazed-looking Haley into the bedroom — the first thing Bodie did was to grab Jon and give him a hug that lifted him off his feet.

 _‘Don’t_ do that to me again,’ he said. His voice was roughened with more emotion than he’d have liked to admit to. Predictably, this delighted Jon, who had always loved to draw people out into showing their feelings openly. He gave Bodie an affectionate kiss, which had the bonus of obviously irritating Doyle (who bloody well deserved it), but was mainly just an eye-opener. Bodie hadn’t realised there was such a thing as a platonic kiss on the lips, but that was what Jon had given him, and what he, after a second of being startled, had given in return.

It was rather a relief. He had worried secretly for years about whether he’d ever really got over the old teenage crush. He remembered the letters then, fished them out of his pocket, and gave them to Hal.

'We didn't mean to snoop, but...'

'I understand,' said Hal. He went rather pale when he saw the letter in English. 'Oh God, I'd forgotten that was there.' He swallowed. He cast a venomous look towards the closed door of his father's room. Jon squeezed his shoulder, and said: 'He can't hurt you now. What is it?' 

Hal folded the letter quickly. 'You shouldn't see this yet. Wait till we're alone.'

More for the sake of protocol than any lack of trust, Bodie locked Jon and Hal in the third-floor bedroom while he and Doyle wrapped things up at the house. He was surprised when Hal requested that room as their prison. ‘What Americans call _closure,_ ’ was Hal’s reply. Judging by those words, and the energy that coursed between Jon and Hal as they entered the room, they were about to have some of the best sex of their lives. That suspicion put paid to any residual guilt Bodie might have had at locking them in.

‘Just keep the noise down,’ he warned, and left them to it.

Apart from wanting to give them half an hour alone, Bodie knew he and Doyle needed the time to pack up, and for Hardy to talk them through the files in the safe. He told them, without much elaboration, which were relevant. One thing he _did_ confirm, though, was that Edward Haley was the ‘unknown’ figure of Vic Matlock’s dealings in the ‘40s and early ‘50s. He had been invalided out of the navy in ’43, a few months before the birth of his son. Then he had started a practice in Harley Street, and sold cocaine and heroin to his patients.

‘The Colliers want to burn them both,’ Hardy explained. ‘I was able to be of some assistance to them. Martin, unbeknownst to most people, is a client of mine.'

'Of yours?' Doyle's eyebrows rose in obvious surprise. 

'Which one's Martin again?' Bodie asked Doyle. 

'George and Joe's dad, Peter's younger brother, Jack's uncle,' Doyle replied in a quick aside. He went on to Hardy: 'I thought you only catered to old money.' His voice held a hint of humour.

'Edward's hardly that,' Hardy said with a laugh. 'He wasn't even _new_ money. He was educated on scholarships — he was a clever man and a damned good surgeon, no matter what he was, and is, like as a man. Old money, though? He married it.'

Doyle nodded. 'So what about Martin Collier?' 

'I took him on after my father died. It was the beginning of my efforts to make amends for what my father did on Edward's orders. He sent Martin’s brother down as a scapegoat. Peter Collier was involved in a fatal brawl in prison and it was no coincidence that he’d just threatened my father that he’d tell the truth. His family have been looking for a way to prove Haley’s guilt for years. 

‘And as for Matlock — Martin Collier respects his sons’ wishes, he knows they want to stay on the straight and narrow. He’s made enough money on his own not to need a boss any longer. He wanted to keep Matlock away from his boys. Didn’t take much to convince Joe and George it was the right thing to do.’ 

‘So then you used the trust Edward Haley had in you to orchestrate a double bluff,’ said Bodie. Hardy nodded.

‘When Edward took to his bed permanently, he started off downstairs, in his study, near his precious safe. When Martin told me about Jack’s plan, I convinced Edward that Draper was going to make an attempt on his life, and that he’d be safer in the first-floor suite. The safe was too heavy to move.’

‘So why not just make off with the papers yourself, once Haley was out the way?’ asked Doyle.

‘Partly because I'm a selfish man. I hoped that I might remain in the background. I didn't bank on Edward calling in CI5. I could have handled a couple of bodyguards with their brains in their biceps. But —' he shrugged '— such is life. Anyhow, it was Jack's idea to use Draper. He knew him by reputation, they were contemporaries in the professional killing game, but he also had a detailed history of Draper’s life from his boss, he knew how Edward felt about him, and thought it would add insult to injury if Draper partook in his ruin. It would also ensure that if anything went wrong, Draper would take the brunt of the blame. Martin was in favour of it for that reason. If Draper were caught, he had a clear motive for revenge.’

‘So who broke Jack out of prison?’ Bodie asked. ‘Who’s this boss of his, if it’s not Matlock?’

‘That’s where it gets complicated,’ said Hardy. ‘Have either of you heard of a man named Leon Brandtner?’ He nodded when Bodie and Doyle turned to look at each other. Doyle looked like Bodie felt: a mixture of astonished and horrified. ‘Yes, I thought you might have. I imagine no one remotely connected with law enforcement _hasn’t_ heard of him.’

‘He’s poison!’ Doyle said, with vehemence. ‘Pure poison. Weapons, drugs, porn — the worst kind of porn, I might add — he was one of the big names in illegal trading in the ‘60s and early ‘70s. Bigger than Matlock. And even slipperier. No one could lay a finger on him. But I thought he’d gone to ground years ago! Don’t tell me he’s back at it again.’

‘He’s at it, alright,’ Hardy said. ‘He’s fronting himself as a property developer; his nephew Gerard's the face of the business, but you can bet your life that his uncle's "the man behind the curtain", as it were. And that's not _all_ he’s up to. For one thing, Jack's in his pay. His brief was to kill Jon Draper, and make sure Owen died in front of him first. But Jack thought he’d use your friend Draper for a little jaunt of his own, kill him after he’d made himself useful. Trouble is, Jack’s got a drinking problem. According to his cousin George…’

‘Was that who phoned?’ Doyle demanded.

‘Oh. Yes.’ Hardy grimaced. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

‘It’s my job not to miss anything.’ He glowered at Hardy. Bodie gave his partner a look that tried to say: _‘Come on, Ray, he’s on our side!’_ but then it occurred to him that Doyle might not see it that way. ‘Go on, Mr Hardy,’ he prompted. 

‘He knew Draper from a photograph in which Owen was also present. But he lost the photograph, and when he reached Vevey he latched onto the first person he recognised. It happened to be Owen. By the time he’d realised his mistake, Owen had convinced him he was capable of doing the job himself. Jack was congratulating himself on a narrow escape when Brandtner’s nephew called him, demanding a progress report. Jack could have spun a lie to put him off, but he’s terrified of Brandtner and he lost his nerve. He rushed back to Switzerland and blew up the boat. If word reaches Brandtner that Owen and Draper are both still alive, Jack’s going to be for it. He needs protection.’ 

‘He’ll get it,’ said Doyle.

‘Not that he deserves it, but he’ll get it,’ said Bodie. ‘Why was Brandtner out for Jon’s blood?’ 

‘I think you’d better let the man himself explain that,’ said Hardy. ‘It’s not a story I’m particularly keen to dwell upon.’

‘Is it connected with Luke Ashford’s disappearance?’

‘I’d say almost certainly, yes.’

 _My God,_ thought Bodie. _Poor Ash. And Jamie’ll be heartbroken._

‘If Brandtner’s got him, there’s not much chance he’s alive, is there?’ he muttered aloud. 

‘That depends what he wants,’ Hardy said gravely.

 

=================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 23:15 BST._ **

=================

‘Thank God you’re a decent driver,’ Jon said to Bodie, as the silver Capri roared into the car park. 

 Doyle was a silent, slouching, but reassuring presence in the passenger seat, his feet propped up on the dashboard. Jon was in the back, leaning on Hal, who had been drifting in and out of sleep. Every now and again, Bodie had seen him jerk himself into alertness, and tighten his arms around his partner. Once he had kissed him very deliberately in the space between his eyes. It wasn’t merely affection, that gesture. It had a protective attitude about it. Hal must have been aware that as long as Jon was in England, he was in danger of his life from several possible directions. Jon seemed relatively unbothered: perhaps Hal’s embrace was having the desired effect. He gave him a gentle nudge, and they both got out of the car.

Jon hastened towards the lifts, pulling Hal by the hand. By ‘decent driver’, Jon had meant ‘fast’. Bodie had cheerfully obliged his constant requests for more speed, even though he still wasn’t quite sure what the urgency was. He assumed it was to do with Ash, and put his foot down, thinking of that handsome, funny, sweet-natured young man, his brother’s oldest and most beloved friend. He hoped he wasn’t in any pain.

Bodie exchanged a covert smile with Doyle as they walked the corridors of CI5 behind two men holding hands. Not that they met anyone. They reached the door of Cowley’s office. Doyle stepped pointedly in front of Jon and knocked before he could. Bodie heard Doyle’s voice as clearly as if he’d actually spoken. _Don’t push your luck._

‘Come in!’

‘Evening, sir,’ said Doyle. He cast a speculative look towards the other three men in the room, seated around Cowley’s desk with Cowley as a kind of suited guru, ready to address them all. ‘Hello, you two,’ he addressed Tucker and Maddox. They were sitting apart from the other man, their chairs pulled close together. Tucker leaned on the left arm of his chair, Maddox on the right. Their shoulders were touching. 

 _Have Ray and I ever looked that obvious?_ Bodie found himself wondering.

‘Good evening, Mr Faraday,’ said Bodie. Faraday, of Special Branch, stood up and shook hands. He was the tallest in the room by a good six inches, a veritable beanpole of a man. He had thin lips and a thin moustache, and his iron-coloured hair had too much gel in it.

‘Bodie. A pleasure to see you again.’

 _I doubt it,_ thought Bodie. _But you look a bit more inclined to cooperate this time, at least._

‘Draper,’ Faraday said, with a grim nod.

‘Faraday,’ Jon replied coldly. His shoulders tensed. Hal made a slight but distinctive movement, just in front of his partner. Bodie hid his smile in the guise of a yawn.

‘You can sleep later, Bodie,’ said Cowley. Then, briskly: ‘Draper, what have you to report?’

‘Condemned pub, the White Tiger.’ Jon added the address, which Cowley wrote down. ‘The meeting’s set for one a.m.’ When Hal gave him an astonished look, he said: ‘I wasn’t watching you the _entire_ time.’

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ Hal asked.

‘Draper,’ Doyle said sharply. ‘Brandtner’s — injury. Is it true what they say? He lost…’

Jon's expression hardened.

‘And that was _you?_ ’

‘Not personally, but I was there.’

‘Luke Ashford’s the son of a surgeon,’ said Doyle, nodding as he began to understand — not that this helped Bodie at all.

‘Exactly,’ said Draper. ‘A surgeon I was at school with, as a matter of fact.’

‘You can stop the cryptic crossword stuff right this minute,’ Faraday interrupted. ‘We all need to know what’s going on. Cowley, perhaps you’d like to introduce us.’

‘Certainly. For those of you who don’t know, this is Detective Richard Faraday of Special Branch. Faraday, you know Agents Tucker and Maddox, and Agent Bodie. This is Agent Doyle, Bodie’s partner. You clearly remember Jonathan Draper.’

‘I do,’ said Faraday. ‘The last instruction I gave him was to intimidate a client of Leon Brandtner’s. I don’t remember asking him to deal with Brandtner himself.’ He gave Draper a pointed, hostile look.

‘Worked, didn’t it?’ Jon shrugged. ‘Brandtner’s never dealt in child porn since.’

‘And it’s largely thanks to you that we’re in the mess we’re in now. Or did you think Brandtner would be too stupid to work out who did it?’

‘Well, he was stupid enough to take eight years,’ said Jon.

‘A young soldier could die,’ snapped Faraday. ‘A hero of the Falklands. What happens if that gets out, eh? And we could lose one of London’s finest surgeons.’

‘I didn’t force Roddy to do what he did,’ Jon replied.

‘No, you manipulated him. That’s what men like you do.’

‘And that’s who men like _you_ get to do your dirty work.’

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Cowley.

‘By the way,’ Jon said coldly. ‘This is my life partner, Owen Haley. Mr Cowley neglected to introduce him.’

Faraday nodded at Hal, who nodded back. Whether he’d known beforehand that Jon was gay, whether he was determined not to react, or whether he just wasn’t as bigoted as most of his peers, Bodie couldn’t tell.

‘Mr Faraday,’ Jon went on, ‘is also pissed off because Jack Collier went rogue. If he agrees to make a deal, the authorities are obliged to protect him.’ He smirked at Faraday. ‘He’s a key witness now, isn’t he, Faraday?’

‘Potentially,’ said Faraday. ‘If he _doesn’t_ play ball, he’ll be thrown back inside faster than you can say Jack Robinson.’

‘To his death,’ said Hal. ‘Just like his father.’

‘That is beyond our control,’ said Faraday.

‘Gentlemen, we’re running out of time,’ said Cowley. ‘Have a seat, all of you.’ He indicated the correct number of spare chairs in the room.

‘Now. First of all, Bodie. Please update us on the situation with Edward Haley.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Bodie. ‘The threat to his life never existed. His lawyer, Michael Hardy, deliberately fed him the wrong information. The Colliers, via Jack, coerced Haley’s son —’ he indicated Hal, whose mouth twisted predictably at the association ‘— into collecting some files from his father’s safe that prove he was selling drugs for Vic Matlock forty years ago.’

‘Haley’s files also contain the conclusive proof that we’ve been lacking, linking Matlock to the drugs ring that the Colliers were later proved to be part of,’ put in Doyle.

Maddox’s eyes lit up. ‘Shall we bring him in, sir?’

‘I shall need to interview Michael Hardy. I assume he’s on his way here.’

‘Wilson’s bringing him in,’ said Doyle. With a slight smile, he added: ‘Wilson drives a bit more slowly than Bodie.’

‘And you are here, Draper, why?’ Cowley asked.

‘In case anything went wrong,’ said Jon. ‘Hal didn’t know I was following him. He left home on the pretext of answering a summons from his father, and he thought I’d believed him. But I knew he was lying, and I knew he _wouldn’t_ have lied if he were doing whatever it was off his own back, so I thought someone else had to be involved. I followed Hal to find out who it was and to stop Hal doing anything that could land him in prison. I judged it safer not to let him know I was there. Especially after our boat blew up. Which I strongly suspect was Jack Collier’s doing. Brilliant as Hal is in many ways, he’s not a good liar, and it would be easier for me to lie low if he appeared grief-stricken. Sorry, Hal,’ he added.

Hal’s smile suggested Jon had already made it up to him. 

‘And in the meantime, you saw the report about Luke Ashford,’ prompted Cowley.

‘I smelt a rat straightaway. I went looking for his father. I knew that if he’d been approached, he might be being watched. It’d be disastrous for us to be seen together, so I disguised myself. I remembered some useful tips _you’d_ given me, actually, Faraday.’

‘You’re welcome, I’m sure,’ Faraday said drily.

‘I found Roddy at his local. He looked a wreck, of course. We arranged to meet at a certain, um, public convenience. People don’t listen too closely to conversations there, sir, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Brandtner wants him, and if he turns up tonight offering fifty thousand pounds cash and his own life, Brandtner will hurt Luke a good deal less.’

‘But he will hurt him,’ said Bodie. Jon nodded with a grimace. 'And kill Roddy, if we don't stop him.'

‘What on earth did you do to Brandtner?’ Bodie asked. 

‘Do I have time to explain, sir?’ Jon asked Cowley. 

‘I think we need to know,’ said Cowley.

‘Alright,’ said Jon. ‘Christ, not even Hal knows about this. Look, this isn’t pretty, and I’m not especially proud of it. And if I tell you, this is off the record, alright? Remember I was working for Special Branch at the time…’

‘You won’t be arrested,’ Cowley said impatiently. ‘Go on.’ 

Jon took a breath, and nodded.

‘Roderick Ashford and his two brothers were at school with Hal, Bodie and me. There was a teacher there who messed with some of the boys. He was the one I —’ he trailed off.

‘We all know about that,’ said Cowley. He silenced Tucker with a look when he opened his mouth, obviously to say that he and Maddox didn’t. ‘Go on.’

‘In about ’73, while I was something of a freelance agent, I ended up in hospital with a ruptured spleen, and Roddy operated on me. We got talking. He said he’d always wanted to thank me for doing away with Father Thompson — that’s the teacher. He told me about his youngest brother. Thompson had touched him, threatened to rape him, just like…’ He trailed off again, with an uneasy expression.

‘Just like he did to me,’ Hal said. He held his head high under the sudden scrutiny of everyone in the room. Bodie wanted to say ‘And me,’ but his mouth went dry and he couldn’t make himself speak. 

‘Anyway, that traumatised Frankie enough on its own, and it could have been much worse if Thompson had been allowed to finish what he started. Roddy swore I’d saved Frankie’s life, and he was even more certain of it later, after Corin Adams killed himself. You know he was one of Thompson's first victims.' Bodie and Doyle both nodded. As he always did when Corin's name came up, Bodie felt a pang of regret.

'I conjectured something of the kind,' said Cowley. Jon nodded, and went on speaking.

'Roddy said if there was ever anything he could do — you know. At the time I said he’d probably saved _my_ life by operating on me and that was enough. But when the Brandtner assignment came up… I dunno, it started off as an idle chat. Maybe we’d had a few too many. I must’ve been pissed to have brought it up with Roddy in the first place. But we’ve both got good reason to hate pedophiles like Brandtner and the people he was dealing with. Don't go writing this off as a bad foreign element, either. His clients were all as British as you and me. My brief — at least in broad terms — was to stop a particular deal with a gang who were down from Leeds. Special Branch wanted it done off the record, _don't ask why_. But I knew the solution had to be something bigger than a gun to someone's head and a few empty threats. For one thing, Brandtner deserved more. You see, he didn't just deal in child porn. He was also involved in its production.'

Doyle and Hal both exclaimed at once. Each called Brandtner a one-word name. Doyle's was 'bastard', and Hal's was much worse. For once, however, Cowley didn't tell them off. He looked tense and angry, as if maybe he were calling Brandtner the same things inside his own head.

'So we got into Brandtner’s bedroom, knocked him out with a strong anaesthetic, and Roddy — operated,' concluded Jon.

‘And the result of that operation?’ Cowley asked, although by his tone, he either knew or had guessed.

‘Brandtner woke up the next day with no balls,’ said Jon. ‘It wasn’t sadistic exactly. We didn’t torture him. Roddy did a proper job. Brandtner would have felt no more pain than a cancer patient. Perhaps less, since there was no associated treatment. But obviously, um —’ he dropped his eyes, and went on ‘— it was a terrible thing to do to someone. He got the message, and he never dealt in child porn again. He never touched another kid, either. But now I just couldn’t imagine myself — I mean, I was a different man back then.' 

‘And I take it Brandtner didn’t know who’d got into his room?’

Jon shook his head. ‘The whole thing went like a dream. I was a pro, remember. And Roddy did exactly as I told him. It must have taken Brandtner all this time to work out who did it. He had Roddy’s son kidnapped, and he hired the best man he knew to take me out.’

‘Collier had killed for Brandtner before,’ Faraday put in, and Cowley gave a comprehending nod. 

‘But Jack’s not the man he used to be,’ said Hal. ‘Prison turned him into a junkie. He fucked up — excuse me, Mr Cowley — he made a mistake. A mistake he tried to rectify by blowing up our boat. And I might just add, Detective,’ he addressed Faraday, ‘that you can add me to the list of people you’re protecting Jack Collier from.’

‘Hal,’ Jon warned.

‘You said yourself I’m no liar.’

‘Yeah, but you can just _not tell the truth.’_ Jon's lips twitched, though, and Hal grinned. Faraday looked as if he disapproved of such frivolity.

‘You will both, I hope, leave the country soon? For good, this time?’ Faraday addressed Hal and Jon, but he also glanced at Cowley.

‘Rest assured, I will extend every protection in my power towards them,’ said Cowley.

‘Good,’ Faraday said curtly. ‘Because you can add Special Branch to the list of people you’re protecting Jonathan Draper from, if they’re not gone in forty-eight hours.’ 

He wore a smug look, but it did not last. Bodie was surprised he didn’t turn to ice and shatter, from the expression on Hal’s face. He wouldn’t have said it in front of either Hal or Jon — he valued all his limbs, and he liked Hal too much to hurt him — but the words _apple_ and _tree_ were circulating in his mind.

‘I trust everything is now clear,’ said Cowley. ‘Bodie, Doyle…’

There was a knock at the door. Cowley called: ‘Come in!’ and Murphy entered.

‘Wilson says to tell you that Michael Hardy is in the interrogation room, sir. And we have Martin, George, and Joe Collier downstairs. Their families are being moved to Safehouse 4 under armed guard.’

‘Good. Thank you, Murphy. But no Jack?’

‘Jack is nowhere to be found, sir. Anson just spoke to Morrison from Special Branch, and they’re taking over the search. He’s their bird, sir.’

‘True enough,’ said Cowley, with a glance at Faraday. ‘Is that satisfactory, Detective?’

‘Certainly. As far as I’m concerned, you’re now free to move on Matlock.’

‘You heard him,’ said Cowley. Murphy nodded, and left the office.

‘What about us, sir?’ Maddox asked. 

‘I didn’t bring you in here to listen to all this for your own entertainment, Maddox. You and Tucker were on standby, which means standing by until _I_ find something for you to do. That something is backing up Bodie and Doyle. You’re going to rescue the Ashfords and bring Leon Brandtner in for attempted murder and conspiracy to the same. I’m sorry you’ll miss out on Matlock, but you will still be instrumental in wrapping up that case. Tonight it’s a matter of timing.’

‘Timing’s a bitch,’ muttered Doyle.

‘I've had enough of that sort of language for one night, Doyle.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Besides,’ Cowley went on, ‘you’d be occupying a far lowlier position on the Matlock raid. This is a smaller operation, but infinitely more delicate. If it succeeds, you two can consider yourselves on a trial period in A-squad.’

‘Oh,’ said Maddox. His eyes widened. ‘Oh!’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said Tucker.

‘You’ve a long way to go, though,’ Cowley noted. ‘But you remind me a little of another pair of agents I trained, not so long ago. They went on to become my best team.’ He barely glanced at Bodie and Doyle, but it was enough. ‘Now. You’ll take two snipers with you. Not Wilson, he’ll be dead on his feet. I’ll call in Christian. And…’

‘I could go, sir,’ suggested Jon. 

‘No you bloody couldn’t,’ said Hal.

‘Absolutely not,’ said Cowley. ‘I’m locking you two in a cell until I’ve assembled a team to take you to a safehouse.’

‘As long as it’s just the one cell, sir,’ said Jon.

‘This is not a hotel, Draper. But, as it happens, with the Colliers staying at our pleasure, we have only the one to spare. Tucker, Maddox, take them down, and come straight back with your weapons at the ready.’

‘Sir.’ Tucker and Maddox stood up, and ushered Hal and Jon out of the room.

‘I mean it, Cowley,’ said Faraday. ‘That man’s a liability. If he’s not out of here by Tuesday night…’

‘He will be,’ snapped Cowley. ‘Now, with all due respect, Detective, I have two operations to run. And you have a man to find.’

‘Indeed. Good night, all.’

Faraday put on his hat, and departed, leaving Cowley alone with Bodie and Doyle.

‘It’s midnight,’ said Cowley, glancing at the clock. ‘The pub’s half an hour away. Go and stake it out. Backup will follow as soon as possible. _Don’t_ try and take on Brandtner on your own.’

‘But what about Ash, sir? Luke, I mean. They could be torturing him in there!’

‘Things could be a lot worse for young Ashford if you go charging in there like cowboys, Bodie. Do things by the book for once. Brandtner won’t do him any real damage until his father gets there.’

‘I suppose not, sir. He wanted Jack Collier to kill Hal in front of Jon, didn’t he?’

‘That’s the kind of man we’re dealing with, Bodie.’


	8. Chapter 8

  **Day 7.**   


**Monday, May 31.**

===============

**_London. Brixton. 00:30 BST._ **

===============

‘So tell me about Rachel Donovan,’ said Bodie, as they sat together in the darkness, in the front of the silver Capri, parked an appropriate distance from the derelict pub.

‘Did you tell Jon about her?’

‘I never got the chance,’ Bodie said, frowning. ‘Why?’

‘I just wondered if that was why he kissed you.’

Bodie laughed. ‘To piss you off, you mean? Naah. There was nothing sexual in it. I showed my hand, and you know what Jon’s like.’

‘He loves you,’ Doyle murmured.

‘I love him,’ said Bodie. ‘Like a brother. You know that. Do you love Rachel?’

‘No.’ Doyle barked a laugh. ‘To be honest, I don’t even like her that much.’

‘Then why?’

‘Partly to provoke you,’ Doyle admitted. ‘You told me to pick her up, and I knew you didn’t expect me to do it.’

‘Bastard,’ Bodie said good-naturedly.

‘But the main thing is, she’s sort of an old friend.’

‘I thought so,’ said Bodie. ‘From Derby?’

Doyle nodded.

‘Anything to do with this?’ He touched Doyle’s damaged cheek. Doyle nodded again.

‘Tell me.’

‘My first boyfriend,’ said Doyle. ‘In the fight where I got this —’ he gestured towards his face ‘— he was killed. His name was Malcolm Donovan. He was Rachel’s elder brother.’ He sniffed, and wiped his eyes. ‘Mal was like — well, like Corin Adams was for you, I think. Except you never told Corin how you felt, did you?’

Bodie shook his head. ‘Never could get the words out. We were too young, really. You were a bit older, weren’t you?’

‘Fourteen, our first kiss.’

‘Corin and I never kissed.’ _God, I wanted to, though,_ he added to himself _._

‘Mal and I did. We were nuts about each other. He was —’ Doyle laughed suddenly. ‘I know what Corin looked like. He and I aren’t totally unalike. You seem to have a type.’

‘I admit it,’ said Bodie.

‘Well, Mal couldn’t have been any less like you,’ said Doyle. ‘If he were alive now, he’d look just like Rachel. Blond curls — slender — beautiful. Effeminate. Everyone knew Mal was gay. Christ, even his mother knew. He was one of the obvious ones. She used to catch him dressing up in her shoes. But he could hold his own in a fight. When anyone threatened his sister or any of the other little kids in our street, he was vicious.’

‘Sounds like you,’ said Bodie. ‘Deceptive. And a bleeding heart.’

Doyle half-smiled at that. ‘So anyway, Rachel tracked me down when she moved to London. Didn’t have the nerve to approach me, so she arranged for me to win the free tickets. She predicted I’d approach her if I saw her, and she was right. She was curious about me. She remembered me vaguely, but she wanted to know the man her brother had loved when they were boys.’

‘Know in the Biblical sense, I take it?’

‘Not only that, but weirdly, yeah.' 

‘And you? I suppose if you half-closed your eyes…’

Doyle nodded. ‘I’m not proud of it,’ he muttered. ‘We both knew after it had happened that it’d only be the once.’

Bodie thought of Hal’s earlier words. ‘What Americans call _closure.’_

‘I suppose so.’ Doyle sighed. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry.’

‘Well, it’s like I said,’ said Bodie. ‘We never made any vows, did we?’

‘But I still hurt you.’

‘Yeah, you did,’ said Bodie. ‘I was jealous as hell.’ It was easier to admit that in the dark. Including to himself. ‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me for her, but it didn’t matter. I’m just more possessive than I wanted to admit, I s’pose.’

‘Well, listen,’ said Doyle. ‘I won’t do it again. And I want you to know, I want out of here. CI5, I mean. I want us gone. After this op — will you hand in your notice with me, Bodie? Can we go and have a _life_ somewhere? A real life?’

Bodie was silent for a long moment. First he worried that this might just be a reaction for Doyle. He had, after all, resigned before. But maybe, Bodie needed to take a leap of faith. Maybe it was like before, when they'd decided to get it together permanently. It had taken a while for them to talk about it, but they had been as much in sync in their attitudes towards their personal partnership, as they were in their professional one.

Maybe it would be a disaster. But Bodie didn't think so. Doyle had only asked him to do what he himself had been thinking about, off and on, for a couple of years. Neither man would expect that their retiring from being not-very-civil civil servants, and moving in together, would change anything fundamental about their relationship. They weren't about to go off choosing curtains and cushions. Neither of them would expect the other to put on a pink pinny and become the feminine half of the partnership, just because their lifestyle was going to become a little more traditionally domestic. 

Warts and all, the only thing it was going to be was exactly what Doyle said. ' _A real life.'_ They wouldn't be answerable to anyone. They wouldn't be told where and how to live. They wouldn't be reachable without notice twenty-four hours a day. If they decided to take a holiday, they wouldn't have that nagging feeling that someone might decide to cancel it. Bodie reached over and gave Doyle’s hand a squeeze.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

 

=================

Christian and Gregson, the snipers, were in position. Tucker and Maddox were at the back door. Bodie and Doyle were concealed on either side of the entrance. Ashford, carrying a briefcase, didn’t see them as he entered the pub. Jon hadn’t said whether or not he was expecting help, but he must at least have wondered. He’d probably been well instructed — between fake moans and groans, no doubt, judging by what Jon had insinuated about their meeting-place — about looking too far to left or right.

‘Ashford,’ said a well-spoken, but distinctly German voice from inside. ‘I’m glad to see you have arrived promptly. ‘Do you have the money?’

‘Yes.’ There was a quiver in Ashford’s voice, familiar from half a lifetime ago. ‘Do you have my son?’

‘Indeed we do.’

‘Is he hurt?’

‘Somewhat,’ said the German voice. ‘Nothing permanently debilitating. His fingernails should eventually grow back.’

Bodie’s hands clenched involuntarily.

‘You evil swine,’ Ashford cried out. ‘Luke has done _nothing_ to you. It’s me you want.’

‘Well,’ said the German. ‘You came, didn’t you? And now, in exchange for you and your fifty thousand, we’ll call him an ambulance after we castrate him. He won’t bleed out on the cellar floor, alone in the dark. You did the right thing, Mr Ashford.’ There was a pause, and then he said: ‘Gerry, fetch the young gentleman.’

Doyle looked at Bodie. Bodie nodded. They turned on their headlamps and burst into the dimly-lit room.

‘Don’t move!’

‘CI5!’

‘Ashford, get down!’ Bodie yelled.

Someone opened fire from the stairs. Bodie and Doyle both dived for the bar. A volley of bullets hammered into the front of it, and smashed the glass-fronted cabinets above their heads. Doyle vaulted over and collapsed, clutching his right shin.

‘Ray?’ Bodie leaned against the solid oak of the bar and reached out to his fallen partner.

‘I’ll live,’ groaned Doyle.

Bodie nodded, and moved towards the end of the bar. More gunfire signalled Tucker and Maddox’s arrival from the back. Brandtner — at least Bodie assumed the large, square figure was Brandtner — was now firing at them from behind a doorway. A younger man was crouched behind a pile of crates, returning fire at Tucker. Maddox downed the man on the stairs. Bodie fired towards the crates, and missed. Then he saw Brandtner disappearing out the back way.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he muttered. Under the B-squad men’s covering fire, Bodie ran across the room in pursuit of Brandtner. He heard the back door slam, and the squealing of tyres in the alley out the back. He threw open the back door and fired at the black sedan as Brandtner slammed its right-hand back door behind him. The windows were bullet-proof. Bodie swore, took aim at one of the tyres — swore again; he was out of bullets. 

‘GREGSON!’ he yelled. He reloaded his weapon and rushed back inside. He heard two rifle shots as the snipers gave it their best — and the sound of tyres squealing again, in the distance.

Bodie slammed the back door of the pub so hard that it came off one of its hinges. He ran back inside. There was silence. The younger man behind the crates was dead, his pistol hanging loosely from his trigger finger.

‘I got him,’ Tucker said weakly. He was on the floor, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. Maddox was beside him, pressing desperately on the wound with one hand, while Tucker clutched the other. 

‘I called an ambulance,’ said Maddox. ‘I think it’s too late for Ashford.’ He gestured towards the stairs with his head. Ashford was crumpled at the bottom, surrounded by banknotes. His briefcase had fallen open at his feet.

‘Ah, Christ, Roddy,’ Bodie murmured. He checked Ashford’s pulse, but Maddox was right. There was a bullet in his heart. He had probably died instantly. The surgeon had been in his early forties, a good looking man still very much in his prime. At school he had been tipped to be Head Boy, but there was a scandal; he’d got a girl pregnant, and had to marry her when they were both just seventeen. Their son, Luke, was born while Roddy was still at school. He and his wife were divorced now, but the marriage had lasted a long time. She had stayed home with Luke while Roddy put in the hard hours at medical school. He and his son had not been close until after the divorce, when Luke was almost grown up. Now he had given his life for him. He was agelessly beautiful in death.

‘Rex, stay with me,’ Maddox said. The panic in his voice drove Bodie’s mind back to the present. 

‘I have to,’ said Rex. ‘Sara phoned while we were getting ready. She’s in labour. She’ll be at the hospital now.’ He smiled faintly. ‘She called me a useless bastard for not walking out on the job to be with her. I almost wish I had, now.’

‘Almost? _I_ wish you had!’

‘Naah,’ said Rex. He raised a bloody hand to Maddox’s face. ‘Couldn’t leave you.’

Maddox kissed his hand; his tears mingled with the blood. Bodie bit his lip.

‘I’m going down to get Ash,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, Cal, pull it together when the ambulance gets here. Ray!’ he called. 

‘Still with you,’ said Doyle.

‘You alright?’

‘I think the bullet broke the bone.’ He sounded pained; his breath hissed in and out from between his teeth. ‘But I’ll be fine, Bodie. For fuck’s sake go.’

‘Knife!’ said Bodie. ‘He’ll probably be tied up.’

There was a clatter, and the Swiss Army knife appeared on the floor beside the bar. Bodie ran to pick it up, and headed once more into the back room, looking for the cellar door. He found it easily enough. It was locked — he shot the lock out.

‘Ash!’ he called. The answer was a sob of relief, and of incredulity.

_‘Jamie?’_

‘No, mate. It’s Will.’ He ran down the cellar steps. His torch beam fell onto the young man, his face bruised and his hands bloody, tied to a chair with ropes so tight that they, too, had drawn blood.

‘You sound so much like him,’ said Ash. Despite his condition, his face coloured, and he looked sheepish.

‘Well, I’ll call him when we get out of here. He’ll be with you in a couple of hours if I know my brother.’ Bodie brushed Ash’s hair out of his face in an echo of the tenderness he knew Jamie would have shown him, if it had been him who'd come. He then set about cutting his bonds. Ash was almost free when he asked the inevitable question — the one Bodie was dreading having to answer.

‘Will — where’s my dad?’

 

 

 

 

=================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 04:30 BST._ **

=================

Bodie and Maddox sat together in Cowley’s office, waiting for the old man to come back from the hospital and debrief them. Maddox, his face and hair still streaked with dust and powder and Rex’s blood, was fidgeting. Rex was in a stable condition now, but things had not gone well at the hospital. As the nurses had wheeled him towards the operating theatre, Maddox running alongside, they had come upon Sara, being wheeled towards the delivery room, with Eileen following.

The tirade had been spectacular. Nearly hysterical with the pain of childbirth, the sight of her husband on a hospital trolley had sent Sara over the edge. It had ended with Rex, in his half-conscious state, promising to quit CI5. Sara had screamed at Maddox — _you’re supposed to be his partner, why didn’t you protect him?_ — a natural enough reaction. But she had also said she never wanted to see the Maddoxes again. She had rejected the support of Eileen, her best friend since college. She had told Rex that if he went near them again, she’d divorce him and he’d never see his child. Rex had clutched Maddox’s hand tight, sworn to do what his wife wanted, and then let him go. 

‘You don’t want to take that seriously,’ Bodie said, when Maddox told him all this. ‘How would you like to have a nine-pound baby forcing itself out through your pelvis? The worst we know’s a bad case of indigestion.’ Childbirth was the only element of the female perspective Bodie had ever tried to understand — if there was one thing he could empathise with, it was physical pain.

‘I saw her eyes,’ Maddox said. His own became bright with tears. ‘She was serious. And Rex made me leave him. He’s alone. He’s hurt, badly hurt. I should be with him. It’s _me_ he —’

He stopped, and reddened.

‘I know you saw us,’ he muttered. ‘I know you know it’s serious. Eileen told me.’

‘Cal,’ Bodie said gently. ‘I know how you feel. Remember, Ray got shot in the chest a few years back?’

‘But it’s not the same,’ Maddox said.

Bodie cleared his throat. Maddox gave him a startled look.

‘It is the same,’ Maddox said. 

Bodie nodded. ‘We’re resigning soon, or I wouldn’t be telling you.’

‘You and Ray? It’s really true?’

Bodie grinned. ‘You’ve wound us up often enough.’

‘But I never really thought…’ Maddox smiled weakly. ‘Wow. You and Ray. You two tough-nuts. You seem like a pair of tops, what did you do, fight it out? Or do you just not go there?’

Bodie laughed. ‘We take turns if you must know. D’you mean you don’t?’ 

‘Well, no,’ said Maddox. ‘We both just want — one side of it.’ He didn’t elaborate. Bodie had his suspicions, but he wasn’t going to be nosy.

The door opened then, and Cowley walked in. 

‘How is he?’ Bodie and Maddox asked together. Cowley looked faintly amused.

‘Doyle is sitting up, and complaining already. They took the bullet out of his leg about half an hour ago and he’s all done up in plaster. He told me to hurry up and debrief you, Bodie. He says he’s bored and the nurses aren’t pretty enough. I suppose you’re the next best thing.’

Bodie snorted, pretending to share in the Controller’s joke. 

‘Maddox, Tucker has recovered consciousness. He was very lucky. The bullet’s left a lovely hole in his breastbone, but it didn’t hit anything vital. The operation was a success.’ 

‘I knew that much,’ said Maddox. ‘But, sir — did he say anything to you?’

‘He mentioned his intention to resign, if that’s what you mean.’

‘His wife’s making him,’ Maddox said bitterly.

‘I can see her point. The woman’s just had a baby. She’s acting on her instincts. She wants the child to grow up with a father, and Tucker had a narrow escape. It’s a boy, incidentally. As I understand the matter, Mrs Tucker wants to call him Harrison, after some American actor. Her husband wants to call him Callum, though I can’t imagine why.’ Cowley’s eyes twinkled at Maddox. ‘They were fighting it out, but then Tucker’s doctor came in and wheeled him back to his own room. They’ve decided to put him under deep sedation for twelve hours, so they can monitor him, but he insisted on seeing his son before they put him under.’

‘So he’s going to be okay,’ said Maddox. ‘That’s all that matters.’

‘I know you’ll probably want to go back to the hospital,’ said Cowley. ‘And I admire loyalty between my men. But I suggest you go home to your wife, Maddox. Respect Mrs Tucker’s wishes. She may yet come round, but not if she’s pushed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anyway, I have another assignment for you.’

Maddox brightened a little. ‘Matlock?’

‘Matlock has been arrested,’ said Cowley. ‘We’re holding him here, but he’s currently being questioned by a pair of drugs squad detectives. On the Colliers’ evidence, and Edward Haley’s files, we should get him on several counts of conspiracy and illegal trading. His driver, Tony Rutherford, has also been questioned, but it’s becoming even more apparent now that he was merely a messenger. He was asked to tell Joe and George that their cousin’s escape had gone as planned. No, the assignment is for both of you. I’m afraid it’s what you call babysitting, but you at least, Bodie, might enjoy this one more.’

‘Jon and Hal, sir?’ Bodie guessed. Cowley nodded.

‘A private jet will take them to Lausanne at six o’clock tomorrow night. Until then they’ll be at Safehouse 3. I want you both here at eight-thirty tomorrow morning to escort them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bodie said. Maddox only nodded, but for once, Cowley didn’t give him a hard time. 

‘One more thing, Maddox. I shall expect your official report by Friday morning, but for now — it was Tucker who shot Gerard Brandtner, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Why?’

‘No particular reason,’ said Cowley, but Bodie could tell he was lying.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue.**

**I: Tuesday, June 1.**

===============

**_Over the Swiss Alps. 20:15 CEST._ **

===============

Hal stirred in Jon’s arms, and awoke. He wrinkled his nose with distaste as he remembered where he was. He hated flying.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Honestly? Like I’ve woken up from a bad dream.’

‘That’s normal,’ said Jon, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

‘Easy for you to say.’ Hal rested his cheek against Jon’s collarbone. ‘What’s your body count? Mine’s two, and one of those was on active service.’ 

Jon lifted his head from the top of Hal’s. ‘You don’t mince words, do you?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Hal. He twisted around, gave Jon a hug. Jon’s brief flash of anger died away.

‘Anyway, according to the official record, your body count’s still one,’ said Jon. ‘Bodie’s gun shot Jack Collier in the act of protecting his charges. Bodie’s ambidextrous. The fact that Collier shot him on one side doesn’t alter his ability to deliver the killing shot. It’ll be put down as _self_ -defence as well as defence of us.’

‘I hope Bodie’s alright,’ Hal murmured.

‘Tell me, though,’ said Jon. ‘Just to compare notes. How did it feel?’

Hal looked at him with a speculative expression on his face. He must have known what Jon was really asking him.

‘I felt like a white knight,’ he confessed. ‘I liked Jack. But he had a gun to your head. It felt — it felt _good_. Even while I hated taking someone’s life, I was still saving yours. And so, mine as well.’ He touched Jon’s cheek. ‘How did it feel for you?’

‘Well.’ Jon smiled. ‘First I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Abject terror, followed by abject relief — it’ll do that for a bloke. Then my heart sort of melted. Then the rest of me. Then I felt like I was being put back together again. Solidifying. And I just wanted you to hold me, and you did.' He gave Hal a squeeze, and Hal smiled up at him.

‘I felt incredibly honoured as well, because — well, I had something that’s traditionally a female privilege. Being rescued by the man you love. It’s as awesome as those mountains, Hal.’ Jon looked out of the window, and enjoyed a feeling of homecoming, even though he knew it couldn’t last. _Unless — well, we could live in the mountains, I suppose._

‘I tell you something else that’s awesome, for me,’ said Hal, still smiling.

‘What’s that?’

‘I had the honour of rescuing the only man living in the world today who would have given me an answer like that.’

Jon covered his smile with a kiss, and laughed at himself. Hal was probably right.

‘Oh, look, Jonny,’ Hal said, pointing out the window. ‘It’s the lake. We’re nearly home.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Jon. ‘We have to sort out the insurance, but you know we can’t stay. Not when so many people know where we are. Not when Brandtner’s still out there.’

Hal sighed. ‘Oh well. Far as I’m concerned —’ he trailed off meaningfully, and they smiled at each other.

The pilot’s voice spoke, telling them they were cleared for landing at Lausanne, and to fasten their seat belts. They both sat up, and obeyed the order. Jon reached for Hal’s hand.

‘Somewhere else?’

‘Somewhere else.’

 

**II. Friday, August 13.**

=================

**_London. CI5 HQ. 15:00 BST._ **

=================

‘That’s it,’ said Doyle. He folded his spare towel and put it into the top of the cardboard box. ‘Soon it’ll be like we were never here.’ He shut his locker and stood up from his crouch.

‘Yeah,’ Bodie agreed. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the plane tickets, which he’d picked up earlier that day. ‘Shall we add these to our packing?’

Doyle looked at them and grinned. ‘D’you want to know a secret?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never been on a passenger jet before. Light aircraft only.’

Bodie grinned. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

‘Naah. I’m excited, actually. Although — meeting your family — I’m a bit —’ he conveyed his dubiousness with a hand gesture.

‘Don’t worry. It’s a big house, you won’t be in anyone’s pockets. Except mine.’ He grinned wickedly, and Doyle chuckled. ‘Lydia can’t wait, you already know Jamie and Bella, Jon and Hal are coming to stay in a week’s time, and my dad — well, it’s a big step for him that he actually wants to meet you. It’s a pretty sizeable step for him to want to clap eyes on me again. But he said he’d rather I was monogamous with _anyone_ than screwing everything in a skirt like I was. The fact that you’ve got the same bits as me, let’s say he’s getting used to.’

‘Alright,’ said Doyle. ‘I s’pose I feel a bit better.’

Bodie gave him a one-armed hug, and a kiss on the temple. ‘Of course, you’re a little scruff from a terraced street in Derby,’ he said, opening his locker and piling everything into the box Doyle had saved for him. ‘But if Lydia can accept that, the rest of ‘em will.’

They were silent while Bodie finished his packing. He felt a twinge of something like wistfulness as he closed his locker. He was happy to be leaving, but CI5 had been good to him. Better than any organisation he’d ever worked for. He’d even felt quite emotional at their leaving do the night before. Not that he’d shown it — and he’d never admit it to Doyle, of course.

‘That everything?’ Doyle asked. 

‘Yep. I s’pose we’d better say a last farewell to the old man.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Bodie fell silent. That part seemed the strangest of all.

‘Are we meeting Cal here or at the pub?’

‘Pub. He’s hoping Rex’ll be able to come. He manages to get out on the pretext of meeting Kenny Johnson for darts.’

‘D’you think Sara’s fooled?' 

Bodie shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

‘Alright then,’ said Doyle. ‘Let’s put the boxes in the car first.’

Bodie made a great show of bowing Doyle out of the door, and they walked out of the locker room for the last time.

 

=================

‘Shall we give him a drumroll?’ Bodie asked with a grin, as they approached the Controller’s door.

‘Haha, why not?’

They drummed a joint beat with their knuckles. They heard, simultaneously, a snort of laughter and an irritated sigh.

‘Someone’s with him,’ said Doyle. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Could be anyone,’ said Bodie. When Cowley’s voice sounded through the door, telling them to come in, he added: ‘Only one way to find out.’

Bodie turned the handle and opened the door. The tall figure who lounged in a chair opposite Cowley’s desk, sipping Scotch, looking as relaxed as if he were drinking at a gentleman’s club, was a man who now answered to the name of Henry Dillon. He had taken his mother’s surname, and the forename was a logical choice — its diminutive had been his nickname since he was twelve years old. He stood up with a smile on his face that showed off a crescent-shaped dimple in the right-hand corner of his mouth. He was wearing a Saville Row suit that must have cost the equivalent of two months of a CI5 agent’s salary.

‘Ah, Bodie, Doyle,’ said Cowley. ‘I thought you’d probably come up. I shan’t need to send Connie to see if you’re still in the building. You have a visitor.’

‘I can see that,’ said Doyle, shaking hands with Hal. Bodie gave him a hug, secretly hoping to spoil the line of his suit. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was obliged to come and settle my father’s estate,’ said Hal, as they all sat down in front of Cowley’s desk. ‘He died three days ago. Naturally enough he’d sacked Hardy, but even if he hadn't, his parole doesn't come up for another three months. What we didn’t know was that Edward had burnt all the wills he’d ever had Hardy draw up. Essentially he died intestate, so as his next of kin…’ Hal raised his long, slender hands expressively.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Bodie. Hal looked astonished at the question, and Bodie answered it for him: ‘Yes, I suppose you would be.’

‘It’s bloody inconvenient, of course,’ said Hal. ‘We’re due in Spain next week and if I don’t have my business concluded, I may be late to visit you.’

‘Well, it’s nice to see you now,’ said Doyle. ‘Want to come for a drink? We’re meeting Cal and Rex at the Scarsdale. You remember Cal.’

Hal nodded, and Bodie suppressed a smile. Maddox was just Hal’s type, and Jon had teased him about it for much of the day, up until Jack Collier had turned up with a German-made pistol and very nearly blown Jon’s head off. Bodie sobered quickly. Nothing like an assassin to put a damper on one’s mood. The pain of the bullet that had chipped his collarbone, the memory of Hal’s eyes as he snatched up Bodie’s gun and pulled the trigger...

‘I can’t come, I’m afraid. I have a meeting. New lawyer. Losing Hardy was rotten.’

‘You can always take him up again when he gets out of prison,’ said Bodie. ‘I expect you and Martin Collier will be his only clients.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Hal. ‘Anyway’ — he breathed the word through a sigh —- ‘I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised that Edward wanted to destroy all connection with the man who betrayed him. And perhaps he wanted to saddle me with a job. Get me away from Jon, too, I expect.'

‘He’s saddled you with half a million pounds and a house that’s probably worth the same amount,’ Cowley interrupted. ‘Not that you need it.’  

‘Not for myself, no,’ said Hal. ‘I’m setting up a charity. The house will be a refuge for young gay men and boys. Especially those who’ve been abused. I’m going to have a therapist specialising in sex abuse working there full-time. Also, my new lawyer knows someone who specialises in helping people recover from _bad_ therapy. So if anyone else has gone through what I have, they’ll be able to get help. Anyone who feels the need to run away will have a sanctuary.’

‘It’s a good idea, Hal,’ said Bodie. ‘I wish it had been around when I was a kid.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Who’s going to run it?’

‘Frankie Ashford. He’s also the sex abuse specialist. Did you know he’d gone into psychiatry?’

‘No,’ said Bodie, with a smile. ‘Good choice, though.’

‘Hey, if it’s successful, the Village People might write a song about you,’ said Doyle.

Hal grinned. ‘Ha, ha. I’ll say one thing, though. There’ll be no “C” in my organisation. I shan’t have it affiliated with any religion.’ With a mischievous expression, he added: ‘Actually, I’m thinking of naming it after my father.’

‘Hal, you are _evil,’_ Bodie said, laughing. 

‘I think it’s in bad taste,’ said Cowley. ‘Don’t you think he suffered enough, with everything that’s been splashed over the papers? Frankly, I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.’

‘He saw his confessor.’ Hal shrugged. ‘He would have died with a clear conscience. As for the humiliation, the ruin of his reputation, he deserved them. And more.’

‘He left you his money,’ Cowley reminded him again. ‘His conscience must have said _something_ to him. The least you can do is forgive.’

‘Jon says the same,’ said Hal. ‘And I can at least forget. He’s no longer any threat to me.’ He raised his chin in his old stubborn attitude. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I want to talk to both of you about a job. Not full-time, but ongoing.’

‘A job?’ Bodie asked, at the same time as Doyle asked: ‘What job?’

‘I want you to look out for Jon and me,’ said Hal. A fierce expression came into his eyes. ‘I won’t have anything like this Brandtner/Collier business happening again. You don’t have to guard our front door, just keep your ears to the ground, use your contacts, let us know if anything comes up that we ought to know about. He doesn't mind having protection, provided it's you. You’ll be paid for more than what you’ll probably end up doing, but it’s worth it to me. You understand, I — I need to know he’s safe.'

‘He’ll be safe,’ Bodie replied. ‘I can’t speak for Ray, but I’m in.’ 

Doyle would have said yes straightaway, but it was better not to emphasise to Cowley the degree to which he and Bodie would be together after CI5. Hal nodded at Bodie, and his eyes flicked towards Doyle, showing that he understood. ‘Actually, that’s why I came to see Mr Cowley. I needed permission for CI5 to contact you if any of its agents hears anything.’

‘Which I gave,’ said Cowley. ‘Likewise, Bodie, should you decide to go permanently into the private security business, you can rely upon your old contacts here. Provided you do not take the relationship for granted.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ said Bodie. He glanced at Doyle — _private security, eh?_ Doyle’s return look said they’d need an awfully long holiday first. 

‘Right, I shall leave you to it, then,’ said Hal, standing up. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ he added to Bodie; again, his eyes flicked infinitesimally towards Doyle. He shook hands with all three of them, and left Cowley’s office without another word. His step was brisker, more confident, than it had been.

‘I meant to ask whether your partnership would be continuing beyond this organisation,’ said Cowley. ‘You’re not obliged to answer, of course.’

‘We’ll certainly see each other,’ said Bodie. ‘But our plans aren’t finalised yet, are they?’

‘No,’ said Doyle. He repeated the cover story that they’d put in their resignation letters. ‘We’d both been thinking about leaving, we talked about it, and decided it would be best to leave together, that’s all.’

‘So I don’t have to saddle anyone else with whoever’s left behind,’ said Cowley. ‘How very considerate of you both.’

‘We were just coming up to say goodbye, as a matter of fact, sir,’ said Bodie, thinking it best to ignore the Controller’s sarcasm, lest it lead them into uncomfortable territory. He stood up, and put out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure working for you, Mr Cowley.’

Cowley, too, stood. ‘If I said it had _always_ been a pleasure, Bodie, I’d be bending the truth. But I will say this. It was men like you and Doyle who made CI5 what it is. A force against the tide that ebbs and flows through the corridors of power. A force to be reckoned with. I couldn’t have done it without you, either of you. And this organisation shall be poorer for your absence.’ Having left Bodie’s hand in mid-air for over a minute, he finally took it. ‘I’m sure we shall meet again.’

‘I’m sure we will, sir,’ said Bodie. Doyle nodded, and hoped his agreement looked real; he would shake George Cowley’s hand with genuine respect, but he wouldn’t mind if he never saw him again. For Bodie, though, the old man had been a kind of father-figure. 

His own father had been absent from his life for so long — so had Doyle’s. But Bodie’s father was alive, the relationship was reparable, and there were some fond memories not _so_ far beneath the surface. Doyle had little to regret. His father had been an alcoholic brute of a man who’d hit his wife and son on Friday nights. Doyle had been twenty-two when he died, a young copper just starting out on the beat, far away from home and glad of it. 

But he had got drunk when he heard the news, cried like a baby on the shoulder of a girlfriend who, not surprisingly, had ended the relationship shortly afterwards. He still didn’t understand where the burst of grief had come from. He ought to have been like Hal, relieved and reinvented, a weight lifted from his shoulders. But Doyle could never be that cold. 

He gave the Controller’s hand a firm shake when his turn came. He said: ‘Goodbye, Mr Cowley. It’s been a privilege, sir.’ And he meant it.

 

 

**III. Sunday, August 15.**

=================

**_Epsom. Maddox residence.  01:06 BST._ **

=================

Eileen awoke with a jump at the sustained ringing of the doorbell. Cal, whose hours had been horribly irregular since joining A-squad, grunted through a sleeping pill induced haze.

‘It’s alright, love, I’ll go,’ she said.

‘No, it’s the middle of the night,’ he mumbled, trying to sit up.

‘You’re hardly in a state to defend my honour, are you? Anyway, I’ve been going to kick-boxing. And self-defence.’ She patted his shoulder and got out of bed. It was a hot night, and she was naked. She slipped on a light dressing gown and padded downstairs in her bare feet. 

She opened the door, and her mouth fell open at what she saw.

 _'Rex?_ Oh God, you’re covered in blood. Jesus — are you hurt? Is Harry okay?’

Rex seemed rooted to the spot — frozen. She tried to take the baby from his arms, but he clutched Harry protectively.

‘They were going to kill him,’ he said, his voice barely audible.

Eileen’s stomach gave an uncomfortable jolt. Who would kill a baby? Wasn’t this exactly why Rex had quit CI5? She ushered him into the house, shut and locked the door. She had forgotten to deadbolt it when she and Cal had gone to bed, but she did it now. 

‘Tell me what happened,’ she insisted. ‘CAL! Get down here!’

‘Cal,’ Rex whispered.

‘He’ll be right here, love,’ Eileen said. ‘Rex, where’s Sara?’

Rex drew a wet, sobbing breath. His eyes were already red, and they filled with fresh tears. 

‘Rex?’

Cal was standing at the top of the stairs. When he saw Rex, he rushed down, all tiredness apparently forgotten. Rex looked ready to faint. Eileen managed to take Harry from him. The baby boy woke, and started to cry. Eileen’s brain fought between a flood of grief for her best friend, and wondering what on earth they would do to feed and change Harry before morning.

‘They cut her throat,’ Rex said. Tears ran freely down his face. ‘Harry had woken up. She was changing his nappy — I got up to get a snack, I was downstairs. They came through our bedroom window. I heard her scream, I ran upstairs. One was holding her arms; the other…’ he gave a sob ‘… he said: “ _Leon Brandtner sends his regards.”_ And he cut her…’ he sobbed again ‘… then he picked up my baby boy…’ He whimpered, and half-reached towards Harry. ‘I didn’t think, I just ran at them, got between them somehow. I’ve got no gun anymore. I just grabbed Harry and ran.’

‘It was for his nephew,’ Cal said, putting one hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, God, Rex — forgive me — but I’m so glad you’re alive!’

He came forward, his arms open. Rex virtually fell into them, clinging tightly around Cal’s neck, breaking down. Eileen was startled, but reassured at the same time: it showed that at least he felt safe here. _I suppose every CI5 tough guy must have a grieving widower somewhere inside._ And Rex was lucky enough to have someone to be a shoulder for him. Cal made calming noises, kissed his hair while he wept. 

Eileen rocked the baby and watched her husband comforting his lover. She felt oddly calm. And she felt the need to state her position. Surely, even for the grieving man, coming here tonight must have thrown up some questions. Or if it hadn’t yet, it would soon.

‘You can both stay as long as you want. I’ll look after Harry as much as you need me to.’

Rex didn’t answer immediately, but Cal mouthed thanks over his shoulder. Eileen nodded. Rex would have reason to be grateful to them both, but she knew exactly what Cal was thanking her for.

At length, Rex murmured thickly: ‘I could be putting you both in danger. I shouldn’t stay here.’ He tried to pull away, but Cal held him fast.

‘No you don’t. We’ll call Cowley. He’ll send protection. Or he’ll put you in a safehouse, in which case I’ll be there. With a fucking grenade launcher if he lets me have one. D’you hear me, Rex?’ He gave him a shake. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you. Or Harry.’

‘Let him put Harry and Eileen in the safehouse, then,’ Rex replied. His voice had changed. It was stronger. There was a new note in it. He looked into Cal’s eyes, took his face in his hands. 

‘I’ll be with you. In CI5. The way it should be. We’re going to take these bastards down.’

 

 

_< << fin >>>_


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